THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Shelburne  Essays 


By 

Paul  Elmer  More 


Second  Series 


Ov  yap  7rpd  ye  T17S  a\r)deia<;  ti/h^tco?   avr/p. 

Plato,  Republic. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York   and    London 
Gbe  Ifcntcfterbocher  ipresg 

1906 


Copyright,  1905 

BV 

PAUL  ELMER  MORE 


Published,  May,  1905 
Reprinted,  January,  1906 


T£be  tmlcfcerbocher  Drees,  "Hew  lforh 


ADVERTISEMENT 

Again  thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  the  New  World,  the  Independent,  and  the 
New  York  Evening  Post  for  permission  to  reprint  the 
essays  which  appeared  in  those  periodicals. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Elizabethan  Sonnets i 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets 20 

Lafcadio  Hearn 46 

The  First  Complete  Edition  of  Hazlitt       .      73 

Charles  Lamb 87 

Kipling  and  FitzGerald 104 

George  Crabbe 126 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith  .  .  .145 
Hawthorne  :  Looking  before  and  after  .  173 
Delphi  and  Greek  Literature  .  .  .  .188 
Nemesis,  or  the  Divine  Envy    .       ,        .        .219 


SHELBURNE  ESSAYS 

SECOND  SERIES 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS 

The;  Introduction  to  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's  reprint 
of  the  Elizabethan  Sonnets,  in  Arber' s  English 
Garner,1  has  fallen  plutnply  into  the  quiet  waters 
of  criticism.  Since  the  gracious  appearance  of 
Charles  Lamb  we  have  grown  accustomed  to  speak 
of  every  versifier  of  the  great  Queen's  days  with 
bated  breath  ;  their  freshness,  their  exquisite  feli- 
city, their  unflagging  inventiveness,  have  become 
a  byword  of  praise  among  all  whose  reading  of  the 
period  extends  beyond  Shakespeare.  But  now 
comes  this  iconoclast,  with  his  terrifying  know- 
ledge of  the  three  hundred  thousand  sonnets  pro- 
duced by  Europe  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
declares  roundly,  nay,  proves  beyond  cavil,  that 

1  Elizabethan  Sonnets,  newly  arranged  and  edited. 
With  an  Introduction  by  Sidney  Lee.  Vols.  XI.  and 
XII.  of  An  English  Garner.  New  York  :  E.  P.  Dutton 
&  Co.,  1904. 

VOL.  II.— I. 

I 


2  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

the  famous  sonnet-sequences  of  Sidney  and  Spen- 
ser and  Daniel  and  Drayton,  to  name  only  the 
better  known,  are  a  mere  tissue  of  words  and 
ideas  stolen  from  Italy  and  France.  Worse  than 
that,  a  number  of  these  poems  are  lifted  solidly 
from  Petrarch  and  Ronsard  and  others  without  a 
sign  of  credit  or  apology.  It  is  shocking,  but, 
to  be  perfectly  frank,  his  argument  only  confirms 
the  opinion  which  many  have  begun  to  hold,  that 
it  would  be  an  act  of  wisdom  to  revise  our  some- 
what unreasonable  estimate  of  the  whole  Eliza- 
bethan literature. 

In  one  respect  it  may  seem  that  Mr.  Lee  has 
gone  too  far.  Because  a  poem  is  manifestly  an 
imitation  or  even  a  barefaced  theft,  it  does  not 
always  follow  that  the  incident  described  is  unreal 
or  that  the  sentiment  is  insincere.  Sidney's  son- 
net on  his  victory  in  a  tournament — 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize — 

may  very  well  be  modelled  on  Petrarch's  account 
of  a  Court  entertainment,  but  it  would  be  captious 
to  conclude  that  such  a  tourney  did  not  actually 
take  place,  or  that  the  chivalrous  knight  was  not 
heartened  in  the  combat  by  Stella's  "  heavenly 
face."  Again  the  same  cavalier's  apostrophe  to 
his  couch — 

Ah,  bed !  the  field  where  joy's  peace  some  do  see, 
The  field  where  all  my  thoughts  to  war  be  trained — 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  3 

is  no  doubt  an  echo  of  innumerable  cries  from 
sleepless  Petrarchists,  yet  the  emotion  may  be 
sincere  enough  for  all  that.  It  is  a  fairly  common 
thing,  I  suppose,  for  young  poets  to  be  in  love 
and  to  tumble  their  beds — and  to  make  capital  of 
their  agony  the  next  morning  in  whatever  tags 
of  rhyme  they  can  summon  up.  There  is  thus  a 
certain  danger  in  dogmatising  too  absolutely 
about  any  particular  sonnet. 

With  this  caveat,  however,  I  am  prepared  to 
follow  Mr.  Lee  in  his  somewhat  sweeping  denun- 
ciation of  the  Elizabethan  sonneteers.  His  col- 
lection embraces  fifteen  series,  extending  from 
Sidney's  Astrophcl  and  Stella,  published  in  1591 
(though  composed  earlier),  to  Robert  Tofte's 
Latira,  the  Toys  of  a  Traveller,  published  in  1597, 
and  including  the  work  of  Watson,  Barnes,  Lodge, 
Constable,  Daniel,  Drayton,  Spenser,  and  others 
of  less  renown.  Shakespeare,  it  will  be  observed, 
is  omitted,  and  Sidney,  as  Mr.  Lee  himself  ad- 
mits, rises  in  part  fairly  above  the  level  of  the 
sonneteering  herd  ;  but  with  these  exceptions  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  perusal  of  this 
branch  of  Elizabethan  literature  is  likely  to  prove 
a  dull  task  to  most  readers.  All  that  was  re- 
quired was  a  moderate  acquaintance  with  Des- 
portes  or  some  other  writer  of  the  Pleiad  and  a 
modicum  of  skill  in  making  rhymes,  and,  look 
you,  your  ambitious  gentleman  was  ready  to  be- 
stow immortality  on  any  Diana  or  Delia  who 
might  offer  to  break  his  heart. 


4  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Write !  write !  help  !  help,  sweet  Muse  !  and  never  cease ! 
In  endless  labours  pens  and  papers  tire ! 
Until  I  purchase  my  long-wished  Desire, 

exclaimed  the  fluent  Barnabe  Barnes,  speaking 
for  himself  and  his  brothers  ;  but  it  was  against 
the  Petrarchian  canon  that  the  long-wished  desire 
should  ever  be  satisfied,  and  hence  these  "grief's 
commentaries"  never  ending.  Of  actual  experi- 
ence or  observation  there  is,  so  far  as  the  language 
betrays,  painfully  little.  The  whole  thing  is  a 
juggling  with  traditional  figures  and  phrases. 
One  might  go  through  these  passionate  pretences, 
pencil  in  hand,  and  check  off  the  score  or  more 
recurring  themes  with  perfect  ease.  There  is  the 
Phoenix,  springing  from  fire  and  fit  symbol  of 
ever-renewed  love  ;  there  is  the  silly  theft  of  Na- 
ture, who  must  needs  borrow  the  hues  of  my  lady 
to  paint  her  roses  and  lilies;  there  is  the  inevitable 
comparison  of  love  with  a  living  death  ;  rocks, 
woods,  hills,  and  streams  are  witnesses  to  so 
many  plaintive  despairs  that  the  whole  creation 
groaneth  and  travaileth  together ;  Echo  retorts 
upon  a  querulous  lover  in  sonnet  after  sonnet ;  a 
hundred  times  we  read,  "  I  burn  yet  am  I  cold, 
I  am  a-cold  yet  burn,"  and  a  thousand  times  we 
hear  the  cry,  "  Give  me  my  heart,  for  no  man 
liveth  heartless."  To  be  sure  the  ideas  are  often 
combined  differently  in  these  pilfered  repetitions, 
but  the  disguise  is  transparent. 

My  heart  mine  eye  accuseth  of  his  death, 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  5 

writes  Constable,  borrowing  from  Petrarch  and  a 
long  line  of  Petrarchists.  Then  follows  Drayton 
with  his 

Whilst  yet  mine  Eyes  do  surfeit  with  delight 
My  woeful  heart  (imprisoned  in  my  breast), 

and  Griffin  with  his 

Oft  have  mine  eyes,  the  agents  of  mine  heart 
(False  traitor  eyes  conspiring  my  decay  !) — 

nor  did  Shakespeare  himself  disdain  the  time- 
worn  theme.  After  reading  much  in  these  son- 
net-sequences one  feels  as  if  he  had  visited  that 
celebrated  chamber  in  the  academy  of  L,agado, 
where  honest  Gulliver  beheld  the  project  for  im- 
proving knowledge  by  practical  and  mechanical 
operations.  The  Petrarchian  tags  are  pasted  on 
the  wooden  dice  of  the  frame  ;  at  a  word  from 
the  professor  the  handles  are  turned,  the  bits  of 
wood  are  shifted  about,  and  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  a  new  sonnet  stands  before  you  in  all  the 
majesty  of  meaningless  rhetoric.  There  is  a  de- 
lightful facility  about  the  whole  affair,  but  some- 
how you  are  more  interested  in  the  process  than 
in  the  results. 

Macaulay,  in  one  of  his  essays,  denounces  Pe- 
trarch as  the  malign  power  of  Italian  literature, 
whose  influence  was  always  set  against  the  better 
tradition  of  Dante,  as  Ahriman  was  opposed  to 
Ormuzd.  What  would  he  have  said  had  he 
known  the  extent  of  that  Ahrimanian  malady  in 


6  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

English  letters  as  well  ?  One  can  imagine  him 
perusing  those  three  hundred  thousand  sonnets 
of  the  sixteenth  century  and  tabulating  the  com- 
plicated plagiarisms  with  that  serene  assurance 
which  only  a  critic  of  his  capacious  memory  could 
assume.  Those  who  have  penetrated  but  a  little 
way  into  that  jungle  of  delights,  and  boast  a  more 
modest  grasp  of  mind,  may  be  content  to  trace  the 
main  currents  of  tradition  in  our  English  sonnets 
and  let  the  details  go  by.  And  in  doing  this  they 
will,  perhaps,  not  miss  the  truer  pleasure.  Pe- 
trarch, of  course,  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
sonneteering  mania  ;  there  is  the  ab  yove  from 
which  any  consideration  of  the  subject  must  start. 
But  Petrarch  himself  is  not  a  simple  apparition. 
In  him  first  of  all  the  currents  of  the  old  world 
and  the  new  met  together,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  nice 
discrimination  to  determine  what  part  of  his  work 
is  inspired  directly  by  the  classics  and  how  far  he 
merely  continues  the  tradition  of  the  middle  ages. 
As  I  have  reread  his  sonnets  for  this  occasion,  it 
has  seemed  to  me  that  too  much  of  his  inspiration 
is  commonly  attributed  to  the  reawakened  enthu- 
siasm of  the  Renaissance  for  the  masters  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  No  doubt  his  style  and  imagery  are 
largely  Latin  ;  he  has  put  on  the  fair  habit  of  the 
ancient  poets,  but  still,  underneath,  the  passion 
and  the  features  of  the  man  are  of  the  Christian 
world.  His  real  innovation,  so  far  as  substance 
goes,  was  the  completeness  with  which  he  welded 
into  a  compound  of  rare  beauty  the  two  mediaeval 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  7 

ideals  of  love.  The  religious  books  of  the  preced- 
ing centuries  had  been  filled  with  bitter  diatribes 
against  women,  and  with  lamentations  over  the 
subjection  of  man  to  feminine  seduction.  From 
this  source,  more  than  from  the  odi  et  amo  of  the 
Roman  poets,  sprang  the  woes  and  outcry  of  Pe- 
trarch's muse. 

Had  I  believed  that  death  would  loose  the  girth 
Of  amorous  cares  that  drag  me  to  the  ground, 
How  long  ago  these  hands  the  way  had  found 

For  weary  limbs  and  burden  under  earth, 

he  writes  in  one  of  the  early  sonnets,  and  it  re- 
quires but  a  little  knowledge  of  letters  to  discover 
in  this  trepidation  of  grief  a  note  purely  Christian 
and  unknown  to  the  pagan  poets.  Whatever  is 
added  to  the  mediaeval  spirit  is  that  peculiar  self- 
consciousness  which  is  not  classic  but  marks  the 
beginning  of  the  modern  world. 

With  this  feeling  of  subjection  that  cannot  free 
itself  from  shame,  Petrarch  combines  the  other 
mediaeval  tendency  which  idealised  woman  as  the 
symbol  of  the  purer  and  more  spiritual  life.  That 
tendency,  familiar  enough  in  the  romances  of 
chivalry  and  in  the  Mariolatry  of  the  Church  to 
need  no  explanation,  found  its  highest  expression 
in  the  Amor  sementa  in  voi  d'ogni  virtute  of  the 
poet  who  preceded  Petrarch.  In  Dante,  indeed, 
this  idealism  is  pure  and  almost  unmixed,  too 
pure  to  find  imitators  among  the  very  worldly 
visionaries  of  the   Renaissance;    it  needed   the 


8  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

composite  genius  of  a  Petrarch  so  to  temper  medi- 
aeval ideals  with  mediaeval  realism  and  then  to 
clothe  these  sentiments  in  such  a  garb  of  classical 
imagery  as  to  establish  the  conception  of  love  for 
centuries.  Nor  is  the  result  of  this  union  in  the 
great  Italian  himself  as  disparate  or  as  unreal  as 
might  be  supposed.  Whether  it  be  the  exquisite 
vehicle  of  his  style  or  some  fine  heat  of  the  poet's 
temperament,  or,  more  likely,  both  of  these  to- 
gether— whatever  be  the  cause,  the  sonnets  and 
canzoni,  which  of  late  years  have  found  so  few 
admirers,  impress  me  as  the  genuine  utterance  of 
a  man  in  whom  personal  emotions  and  abstract 
reflections  and  a  sensuous  perception  of  natural 
beauties  were  so  intimately  bound  together  that 
their  confusion  in  his  verse  produces  the  effect  of 
a  necessary  and  beautiful  sincerity.  The  emotion 
itself  was  not  single  and  so  may  seem  insincere  ; 
the  expression  corresponds  to  an  actual  experience 
and  state  of  mind. 

Such  is  the  basis  of  that  vast  literature  of  which 
the  works  of  the  French  Pleiad  are,  on  the  whole, 
the  most  vital  and  genial,  and  our  English  Eliza- 
bethan sonnets  the  least  tolerable  parts.  Of  the 
mere  copied  agonies  and  despairs  that  rose  from 
Albion  we  need  not  stay  to  speak.  How  well  it 
would  have  been  if  the  lamenting  lovers  had 
heeded  the  admonition  of  their  leader  and  master, 
Sidney : 

You  that  do  dictionary's  method  bring 

Into  your  rhymes  running  in  rattling  rows  ; 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  9 

You  that  poor  Petrarch's  long  deceased  woes 
With  newborn  sighs  and  denizened  wit  do  sing : 
You  take  wrong  ways  ! 

And  how  often  the  rebuke  of  the  same  poet  is 
brought  to  mind : 

"  Fool !  "  said  my  Muse,  "  look  in  thy  heart  and  write  !  " 

Again,  to  show  by  examples  in  what  way  these 
amatory  lovers  imitated  the  Petrarchian  idealism, 
making  of  their  lady  the  symbol  and  quintessence 
of  beauty  and  truth,  would  be  to  quote  the  better 
part  of  Mr.  L,ee's  two  volumes.  As  a  single  speci- 
men of  their  manner  I  might  cite  Lodge's  sixth 
sonnet  to  Phillis,  were  it  not  that  his  language 
here  is  a  shade  too  luscious  for  our  chaster  days. 
The  eighth  sonnet  (so-called  ;  it  has  only  twelve 
lines)  of  the  same  series  may  stand  in  its  place : 

No  stars  her  eyes  to  clear  the  wandering  night, 
But  shining  suns  of  true  divinity, 
That  make  the  soul  conceive  her  perfect  light ! 
No  wanton  beauties  of  humanity 
Her  pretty  brows,  but  beams  that  clear  the  sight 
Of  him  that  seeks  the  true  philosophy  ! 
No  coral  is  her  lip,  no  rose  her  fair, 
But  even  that  crimson  that  adorns  the  sun. 
No  nymph  is  she,  but  mistress  of  the  air, 
By  whom  my  glories  are  but  new  begun. 
But  when  I  touch  and  taste  as  others  do, 
I  then  shall  write,  and  you  shall  wonder  too. 

But  though  the  basis  of  this  literature  is  true 
Petrarchism,   there  are  elements  imported  from 


IO  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

the  French  school  and  from  direct  reading  of  the 
classics  which  give  it  at  times  a  character  of 
its  own.  We  catch  here  and  there,  for  instance, 
an  echo  of  genuine  Platonism,  such  as  is  rarely 
to  be  found  in  the  writers  of  the  Continent. 
I  say  genuine  Platonism,  because  too  often  we 
forget  to  discriminate  between  that  spirit  and  the 
Petrarchian  love,  which  may  be  ideal,  but  is  cer- 
tainly not  Greek.  Yet  the  distinction  is  fairly 
simple.  Love,  to  Plato,  was  a  daemonic  power 
lying  between  our  mortality  and  the  things  of  the 
spirit ;  and  the  vision  of  earthly  beauty  works  a 
divine  madness  in  the  soul  that  lifts  the  beholder 
at  last  quite  out  of  the  sphere  of  human  desires 
into  the  contemplation  of  eternal  truth.  There  is 
no  room  here  for  that  kind  of  symbolism  which 
raised  the  dead  Laura  to  be  the  poet's  ruling 
mistress  in  the  sky.  You  cannot  conceive  of  Plato 
either  sighing  to  be  delivered  from  the  dominion 
of  her  beauty  in  the  flesh,  or  worshipping  her 
after  death  as  a  divinity : 

E  viva  e  bella  e  nuda  al  ciel  salita, 
Indi  mi  signoreggia,  indi  mi  sforza. 

When  Daniel  says  of  his  Delia, 

Chastity  and  beauty,  which  were  deadly  foes, 
Live  reconciled  friends  within  her  brow, 

he  is  employing  a  sentiment  which  is  primarily 
Petrarchian,  and  which  might  without  straining 
be  called  Platonic  also.     But  the  two  ideals  soon 


ELIZABETHAN    SONNETS  II 

diverge.  The  mark  of  mediaeval  idealism  is  the 
endeavour  to  carry  the  conception  of  personality 
into  the  realm  of  the  infinite  ;  Platonic  love  leaves 
the  personal  element  behind  in  its  heavenly 
ascent.  The  attempt  to  make  of  Beatrice  a  guide 
in  the  spiritual  life  would  have  seemed  to  the 
Greek  a  sentimental  sacrilege.  Perhaps  the  finest 
expression  of  the  symbolism  which  derives  from 
the  middle  ages  through  Petrarch  and  is  so  com- 
monly confused  with  Platonic  love,  may  be  found 
in  one  of  the  two  or  three  great  sonnets  in  the 
Amoretti  of  Spenser  : 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand, 
But  came  the  waves  and  washed  it  quite  away  ; 
Again  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand, 
But  came  the  tide  and  made  my  pains  his  prey. 

Vain  man,  said  she,  that  dost  in  vain  assay 
A  mortal  thing  so  to  immortalise  ; 
For  I  myself  shall  like  to  this  decay, 
And  eke  my  name  be  wiped  out,  likewise. 

Not  so,  quoth  I,  let  baser  things  devise 
To  die  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame  ; 
My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  eternise, 
And  in  the  heavens  write  your  glorious  name. 

Where,  whenas  death  shall  all  the  world  subdue, 
Our  love  shall  live  and  later  life  renew. 

That  is  the  idealism  of  the  Petrarchist  at  its 
best,  the  hope  that  his  love  shall  somehow  survive 
mortality  and  mingle  with  eternal  things.  But 
now  and  then  another  note  breaks  through — the 


12  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

true  Platonism,  nay,  the  true  philosophy  that 
may  be  found  in  Christian  and  Oriental  medita- 
tions, and  wherever  the  perception  of  life's  illusion 
suddenly  smites  upon  the  eyes.  You  will  not 
hear  it  in  Petrarch,  but,  in  Christianised  form,  it 
makes  the  theme  of  Sidney's  noblest  lines: 

Leave  me,  O  love  !  which  reachest  but  to  dust! 
And  thou,  my  mind  !  aspire  to  higher  things  ! 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust ! 
Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 

Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke,  where  lasting  freedoms  be ! 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light 
That  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 

O  take  fast  hold  !     Let  that  light  be  thy  guide  ! 

In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death  : 

And  think  how  evil  becometh  him  to  slide 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath  ! 

Then  farewell,  world  !     Thy  uttermost  I  see  ! 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  Thy  love  in  me  ! 

There  is  doubtless  a  different  note  in  this  from 
the  love  which  forms  the  background  of  Sidney's 
as  of  all  these  other  sonnets,  yet  the  change  does 
not  jar  acutely  on  the  mind  ;  we  pass  from  one  to 
the  other  with  a  certain  freedom,  for  after  all  they 
both  lie  in  the  field  of  the  ideal.  But  another  ele- 
ment has  entered  into  the  Elizabethan  sonnets, 
which  is  utterly  discordant  with  their  Petrarchian 
basis,  and  which  does  much  to  produce  the  feeling 
of  vacuity  and  insincerity  inhering  in  them.     I 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  1 3 

mean  the  Anacreontic  vein,  which  spread  through 
the  writings  of  the  Pleiad  after  the  publishing  of 
the  pseudo-Anacreon  by  Stephanus  in  1554,  and 
passed  thence  into  England.  To  Plato,  as  to  all 
the  great  writers  of  the  early  age,  "  Eros,  the  son, 
Aphrodite,  was  a  mighty  god,"  and  as  such  he 
appeared  to  Dante  and  Petrarch.  To  attempt  any 
fusion  or  juxtaposition  of  this  great  divinity, 
"fairest  among  all  the  immortal  gods,"  as  Hesiod 
calls  him,  with  the  laughing,  mischievous  boy  of 
decadent  Greece  and  Rome,  was  to  show  that  in- 
veracity of  imagination  which  renders  a  work 
cold  and  meaningless.  I  do  not  mean  to  condemn 
the  Anacreontic  poems  in  themselves.  Many  of 
them  in  their  airy  Greek  form  are  exquisite  trifles. 
That  translucent  little  gem  of  Cupid  and  the  bee, 
for  instance,  not  even  Tom  Moore  could  vulgarise 
in  his  translation,  and  we  recognise  its  grace  in 
Spenser' s  paraphrase  : 

Upon  a  day,  as  Love  lay  sweetly  slumb'ring. 

There  is  something  perfectly  legitimate,  even 
charming,  in  the  use  of  these  delicate  fancies  in 
the  proper  place  and  in  the  proper  metre,  as  when 
the  same  poet  fashions  this  pretty  conceit: 

I  saw,  in  secret  to  my  Dame 

How  little  Cupid  humbly  came, 

And  said  to  her :   "  All  hayle,  my  mother  !  " 

But  when  he  saw  me  laugh,  for  shame 

His  face  with  bashful  blood  did  flame, 

Not  knowing  Venus  from  the  other. 


14  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

That  is  well  enough  in  a  way,  but  any  one  can 
see  how  the  introduction  of  such  trifling  into  the 
idealism  of  Petrarchian  love,  with  its  life  of  melan- 
choly abstinence  and  its  visions  of  eternity,  must 
mar  and  distort  the  fair  image  of  truth.  Nor  is 
it  an  answer  to  say  that  each  sonnet  must  be 
judged  by  itself,  and  that  there  is  no  discordance 
if  we  read  Sidney's  Platonic  abstinence  on  one 
page  and  Barnes's  Anacreontic  fancies  on  another. 
In  the  first  place,  the  very  form  of  the  sonnet,  with 
the  noble  gravity  of  its  rhymes,  is  totally  unfit  for 
these  light  themes,  and  further,  these  sonnets  all 
spring  so  manifestly  from  the  same  source  and 
breathe  so  completely  the  same  atmosphere  that 
it  is  fair  to  criticise  them  as  a  single  literary 
production.  Indeed,  Sidney  himself  was  half-con- 
scious of  this  confusion  between  the  worship  of 
the  true  Eros  and  the  sportive  dalliance  with  the 
Anacreontic  Erotion  or  Cupid,  and  expresses  it 
more  than  once.  Out  of  this  consciousness  there 
does  even  arise  a  kind  of  subtle  reconciliation,  as 
in  the  eleventh  sonnet : 

In  truth,  O  Love  !  with  what  a  boyish  kind 
Thou  dost  proceed  in  thy  most  serious  ways  ; 
That  when  the  heaven  to  thee  his  best  displays, 
Yet  of  that  best  thou  leav'st  the  best  behind. 

For  like  a  child,  that  some  fair  book  doth  find, 
With  gilded  leaves  or  coloured  vellum  plays, 
Or,  at  the  most,  on  some  fair  picture  stays, 
But  never  heeds  the  fruit  of  writer's  mind  ; 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  I  5 

So,  when  thou  saw'st  in  Nature's  cabinet 
Stella,  thou  straight  lookt'st  babies  in  her  eyes, 
In  her  cheek's  pit  thou  didst  thy  pitfold  set, 

And  in  her  breast  bo-peep  or  crouching  lies, 
Playing  and  shining  in  each  outward  part ; 
But,  fool,  seek'st  not  to  get  into  her  heart. 

But  oftener  Petrarch  and  Anacreon  are  jostled 
together  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  the  former 
look  not  a  little  undignified  and  the  latter  heavy. 
Thus  in  Barnes's  Parthenophil  there  is  a  sonnet  to 
Content,  which  may  be  quoted  entire  for  the 
serenity  and  strength  of  its  noble  lines: 

Ah,  sweet  Content !  where  is  thy  mild  abode  ? 

Is  it  with  shepherds  and  light-hearted  Swains, 
Which  sing  upon  the  downs  and  pipe  abroad, 

Tending  their  flocks  and  cattle  on  the  plains  ? 

Ah,  sweet  Content !  where  dost  thou  safely  rest? 

In  heaven,  with  angels?  which  the  praises  sing 
Of  Him  that  made,  and  rules  at  His  behest, 

The  minds  and  hearts  of  every  living  thing. 

Ah,  sweet  Content !  where  doth  thine  harbour  hold  ? 

Is  it  in  churches,  with  Religious  Men, 
Which  please  the  gods  with  prayers  manifold  ; 

And  in  their  studies  meditate  it  then  ? 

Whether  thou  dost  in  heaven  or  earth  appear, 
Be  where  thou  wilt !  Thou  wilt  not  harbour  here ! 

Barring  the  flat  lines  (the  eleventh  and  twelfth), 
which  have  a  way  of  stumbling  into  the  very  best 
of  these  sonnets,  that  is  an  excellent  piece  of  work; 


l6  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

but  how  disastrously  the  bland  effect  of  it  is  dis- 
pelled when  the  eye  drops  to  the  verses  next 
succeeding : 

If  Cupid  keep  his  quiver  iu  thine  eye,  etc. 

It  is  such  incongruities  as  these  that  point  to 
the  shallowness  and  falseness  of  this  whole  pro- 
cedure. Iu  fact,  we  must  recognise  that  these 
sonnets  show  Elizabethan  literature  almost  at  its 
lowest,  and  that  is  low  indeed.  England  has 
always  lacked  art,  and  the  lack  was  greater  per- 
haps in  those  licensed  days  than  at  any  subse- 
quent period.  Give  the  greater  men  of  that  age 
an  exquisite  fancy  to  daudle  or  some  swift  emo- 
tion to  utter  in  lyric  form  where  the  first  impulse 
of  genius  is  sufficient ;  let  them  have  some  over- 
riding passion  or  extravagant  humour  to  unfold  in 
a  drama  whose  looseness  of  structure  imposes  no 
restraint,  and  they  will  bring  forth  effects  incom- 
parable for  freshness  and  penetrating  beauty. 
But  put  on  them  the  habit  of  a  stricter  art,  bid 
them  confine  their  expression  to  a  mould  where 
form  and  conscious  style  are  essential,  and  immedi- 
ately they  sprawl  and  are  helplessly  confounded. 
How  little  sense  of  form  they  had  is  made  evident 
by  their  habit  of  ending  the  Italianate  sonnet  with 
a  couplet ;  that  trivial  error  in  technique  is  vastly 
significant.  How  frigid  and  unreal  their  senti- 
ment became  under  constraint  may  be  seen  by 
comparing  their  work  with  the  better  productions 
of  the  Pleiad  from  whom  they  stole  so  unblush- 


ELIZABETHAN    SONNETS  \J 

ingly .  Read  through  Mr.  Lee's  two  volumes  from 
end  to  end,  and  you  will  not  find  a  single  sonnet 
which  voices  the  passion  and  pathos  of  fading 
beauty,  so  genuine  to  the  Renaissance,  as  in 
Ronsard's  "  Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille,  au 
soir,  a  la  chandelle";  nor  will  you  meet  with 
anything  comparable  to  this  other  sonnet  of  Ron- 
sard's  whereinto  the  very  essence  of  the  age,  with 
its  love  of  books  and  love  of  woman,  seems  to  be 
distilled: 

Je  veux  lire  en  trois  jours  l'lliade  d'Homere, 
Et  pour  ce,  Corydon,  ferme  bien  l'huis  sur  moy: 
Si  rien  me  vient  troubler,  je  t'assure  ina  foy, 
Tu  sentiras  combien  pesaute  est  ma  colere. 

Je  ne  veux  seulement  que  nostre  chambriere 
Vienue  faire  mon  lit,  ton  compagnon,  ny  toy ; 
Je  veux  trois  jours  entiers  demeurer  a  requoy, 
Poor  follastrer,  apres,  une  sepmaine  entiere. 

Mais  si  quelqu'un  venoit  de  la  part  de  Cassandre, 
Ouvre-luy  tost  la  porte,  et  ne  le  fais  attendre ; 
Soudain  entre  ma  chambre,  et  me  vien  accoustrer. 

Je  veux  tant  seulement  a  luy  seul  me  monstrer : 
Au  reste,  si  un  dieu  vouloit  pour  moy  descendre 
Du  ciel,  ferme  la  porte,  et  ne  le  laisse  entrer. 

But  I  would  not  force  the  note  of  criticism. 
Some  six  or  eight  of  Sidney's  pieces  and  here  and 
there  a  single  sonnet  in  the  other  collections  stand 
out  with  a  beauty  or  simple  realism  all  the  more 
remarkable  for  the  surrounding  waste.  Several 
of  these  I  have  quoted,   but  it  will  have  been 


l8  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

observed  that  even  in  these  there  almost  invariably 
creeps  in  a  line  or  quatrain  or  badly  hung  couplet 
that  does  much  to  mar  the  effect  of  the  whole. 
Only  one  sonnet  occurs  to  me  whose  tone  is  per- 
fectly sustained  from  the  first  word  to  the  last, 
and  that  is  Drayton's  famous  jcn  d' esprit,  "  Since 
there  's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part,"  for 
which,  happily,  Mr.  L,ee  has  found  no  model  in 
foreign  tongues.  Aside,  too,  from  these  notable 
exceptions,  there  are  little  groups  within  the 
larger  sequences,  such  as  some  of  the  earlier  son- 
nets in  Lodge's  Phillis,  which  are  written  with  a 
kind  of  lusciousness  soothing  to  the  ear,  though 
they  may  leave  the  mind  and  heart  untouched. 
And  then  not  even  these  imitators  of  an  imitation 
could  spin  verses  in  those  ebullient  days  without 
chancing  occasionally  upon  a  line  or  quatrain  that 
breaks  through  their  dull  convention,  like  the 
song  of  a  bird  piercing  suddenly  the  monotonous 
undertone  of  the  woods.  It  may  be  an  effect  of 
resonant  melody  found  in  the  words  alone  and 
not  in  the  sense,  as  where  Barnes,  after  the  usual 
frigid  conceit, 

These  mine  heart-eating  eyes  do  never  gaze, 

adds  magniloquently, 

Upon  thy  sun's  harmonious  marble  wheels  ; 

it  may  be  an  image  of  high  splendour  such  as  this 
metaphor  in  the  same  poet, 

And  Phoebe  carried  in  her  amber  couch  ; 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETS  19 

it  may  be  Drayton's  visionary  Platonism, 

Even  as  a  man  that  in  some  trance  hath  seen 
More  than  his  wondering  utterance  can  unfold, 

That,  rapt  in  spirit,  in  better  worlds  hath  been; 
So  must  your  praise  distractedly  be  told  ; 

— whatever  the  note  be,  when  it  strikes  unexpect- 
edly on  the  ear,  we  pause  in  our  reading  and 
know  that  this  poet,  too,  like  Daniel,  has  for  a 
little  while,  and  in  spite  of  the  convention  that 
hampers  him,  been  in  the  company  of  that  "clear- 
eyed  Rector  of  the  holy  Hill."  This,  perhaps,  is 
the  most  obvious  pleasure  to  be  got  from  going 
through  these  all  too  similar  sonnet-sequences. 
Another  satisfaction  they  have,  of  a  negative  na- 
ture to  be  sure:  they  show  more  distinctly  by  way 
of  contrast  the  reality  and  emotional  veracity 
which  remove  the  greater  part  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  to  a  class  by  themselves.  But  of  this  an- 
other time. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS 

However  disappointing  the  mass  of  Eliza- 
bethan sonnets  in  Mr.  Sidney  L,ee's  two  volumes 
may  have  been,  one  great  service  at  least  they 
have  performed:  by  contrast  they  have  thrown 
the  realism  and  human  passion  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  into  a  new  and  bold  relief.  They  serve 
as  a  touchstone,  so  to  speak,  by  means  of  which 
it  is  possible  to  tell  with  a  kind  of  critical  pre- 
cision just  where  Shakespeare  was  juggling  with 
the  conventional  commonplaces  of  the  Renais- 
sance, as  not  seldom  happened,  and  where,  on 
the  contrary,  he  wrote  from  actual  experience  or 
native  emotion.  And  no  one,  I  think,  can  come 
back  to  these  more  personal  sonnets  after  a  perusal 
of  Mr.  L,ee's  collection  without  being  impressed 
anew  by  the  miracle  of  their  beauty  and  without 
feeling  that  with  this  key  the  poet  did  veritably 
unlock  his  heart. 

Not  that  they  contain  any  rationalised  philoso- 
phy or  any  formula  of  life  ;  on  the  contrary,  their 
value  as  a  confession  is  bound  up  with  the  very 
fact  that  they  spring  directly  from  the  experience 
of  the  writer  without  any  attempt  to  shape  that 
experience  into  a  system  after  the  manner  of  the 


SHAKESPEARE'S    SONNETS  21 

more  reflective  artists.  And  in  this  they  are  in 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  plays.  I  am  aware 
of  the  peril  of  such  a  statement  to-day,  when  it 
has  become  the  exercise  of  a  certain  class  of  per- 
fervid  critics  to  read  into  the  dramas  some  favoured 
idea,  whether  political  or  religious  or  moral  or 
literary.  Yet  withal  the  very  difficulties  and 
contradictions  that  arise  from  the  methodical 
interpretation  of  Shakespeare  might  have  warned 
them  that  no  such  application  of  philosophy  was 
possible.  We  take  recourse  to  Matthew  Arnold's 
saying,  "Others  abide  our  question,  thou  art 
free,"  or,  we  quote  from  Lord  Lytton  : 

Each  guess  of  others  into  worlds  unknown 
Shakespeare  revolves,  but  keeps  concealed  his  own  ; 
As  in  the  Infinite  hangs  poised  his  thought, 
Surveying  all  things  and  asserting  nought ; — 

but  few  of  us  have  the  courage  to  admit  that  he 
evades  our  questioning  just  because  he  has  no 
answer  to  give.  It  is  with  him  as  with  the  oracles 
of  which  a  skeptical  poet  has  made  complaint — 

That  none  can  pierce  the  vast  black  veil  uncertain, 
Because  there  is  no  light  beyond  the  curtain. 

We  may  find  the  whole  gamut  of  human  emo- 
tion in  Shakespeare,  but  we  begin  to  darken 
counsel  with  words  when  we  undertake  to  con- 
struct out  of  the  medley  of  his  plots  any  coherent 


22  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

vision  of  life  such  as  exists  in  Milton  or  Homer 
or  Dante  or  iEschylus.  Other  dramatists  have 
resorted  for  their  tragic  thesis  to  some  definite 
philosophy,  whether  of  their  own  eliciting  or  of 
the  age — to  the  antinomy  of  fate  and  the  indi- 
vidual will,  or  the  clashing  of  family  and  state,  or 
the  conflict  of  duty  and  pleasure.  Shakespeare 
proceeds  otherwise:  simple  passion  is  his  theme, 
and  his  tragic  exaltation  is  obtained  by  magnify- 
ing passion  until  it  assumes  the  enormity  of  a 
supernatural  obsession  and  the  bearer  is  shattered 
by  the  excess  of  his  own  emotion.  No  one  can 
have  failed  to  observe  the  incongruity  of  the 
denouement  in  most  of  the  tragedies — the  accumu- 
lated and  unmeaning  slaughters  that  bring  an 
end  to  Ro?neo  and  ^Juliet,  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and 
Lear.  The  simple  fact  is  that  these  gruesome 
conclusions,  twist  and  turn  as  the  system-mongers 
will,  do  not  grow  out  of  any  necessity  of  the  plot, 
but  are  the  relics  of  a  barbarous  taste.  The  real 
climax  lies  in  the  frenzy  of  the  passion-driven 
hero,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  madness  forms 
an  essential  part  of  the  greater  dramas. 

In  this  sense  Lear  may  be  taken  as  the  most 
typical  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  where  the  very 
winds  and  clouds  re-echo  the  hurly-burly  of  over- 
wrought passion.  And  the  summit  of  that  pas- 
sion, I  think,  is  to  be  found  in  those  scenes  before 
Gloucester's  castle  and  in  Edgar's  hovel,  when 
the  King  and  his  little  band  set  the  world  topsy- 
turvy  with   the   unrestrained   wildness  of  their 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  23 

pathos  and  mockery,  through  which  passes  Lear's 
cry  of  terror  :  "Oh,  that  way  madness  lies  !  "  On 
the  contrary,  the  formal  conclusion  of  the  play 
has  no  consistence  in  reason,  and,  aside  from  the 
separate  passages  of  striking  poetry,  little  art. 
The  needless  intrigues  and  the  universal  butchery 
bear  no  logical  relation  to  the  main  theme  and  de- 
grade the  artistic  enjoyment  of  the  hearer.  The 
interest  of  the  piece  lies  in  the  excess  of  passion 
and  not  in  any  unravelling  of  a  tragic  nodus  ;  it 
is  a  drama  of  character  and  not  of  plot. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  the  other  plays.  As 
the  stuff  of  life  presents  itself  to  Shakespeare, 
broken  and  unarranged,  so  he  reflects  it  in  his 
magnifying  mirror — a  tale  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
signifying  nothing.  I  remember  one  warm  even- 
ing in  earhy  spring  standing  with  a  friend  on  a 
balcony  that  overlooked  the  lights  and  the  throb- 
bing procession  of  Broadway.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  theatres  were  closing.  The  scene  was 
new  to  him,  for  he  had  come  from  a  far  Western 
town,  and  the  odour  of  the  city,  the  constant  mu- 
tations of  the  throng,  the  snatches  of  conversa- 
tion, and  the  occasional  laughter  that  floated 
above  the  murmur — the  mystery  of  this  boundless 
activity,  caught  in  passing  glimpses,  acted  on  his 
nerves  as  an  intoxicant.  It  fascinated  and 
troubled  him  at  once  ;  he  could  find  no  answer  to 
the  appeal  of  this  enormous,  ebullient  life,  and  he 
was  haunted  by  the  feeling  that  each  human  atom 
of  the  mass  was  driven  along  in  the  current  by 


24  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

some  desire  inexplicable  to  all  the  others — inex- 
plicable, it  might  be,  to  himself.  The  whole 
spectacle  presented  itself  to  the  eye  as  a  tangle  of 
passions  woven  on  a  web  of  illusion.  "  It  is  all 
new  to  me,"  he  said,  "yet  the  sensation  is 
strangely  familiar.  How  does  it  come  ? ' '  And 
then,  after  a  pause:  "I  understand.  It  is  the 
world  of  Shakespeare,  as  we  have  just  seen  it  on 
the  stage.  And  often  before,  while  reading  his 
plays,  I  have  been  overwhelmed  by  the  same  feel- 
ing of  infinite  interacting  lives  and  infinite  illu- 
sion." And  my  friend  knew  his  Shakespeare  as 
few  of  us  know  him  in  these  laborious  days. 

Only  there  is  something  to  add.  Though 
Shakespeare  did  not  rationalise,  or,  in  a  sense, 
translate  the  events  of  life  into  an  artistic  design, 
though  he  gives  back  the  crude  material  of  emo- 
tion as  he  finds  it,  yet  in  another  way  he  did  have 
his  own  solution  of  the  riddle — it  may  even  be 
that  his  solution  is,  when  all  is  said,  profounder 
and  more  satisfying  than  that  of  any  other  poet. 
The  passions  of  his  play  may  be  knit  into  an  in- 
extricable tangle  so  that  no  dramatic  unravelling 
is  possible,  yet  always  when  the  emotion  is 
wrought  to  a  height  beyond  which  human  nature 
cannot  go,  always  when  the  hearer  is  about  to 
cry  out,  "That  way  madness  lies;  let  me  shun 
that,"  suddenly  the  poet  waves  aside  the  whole 
fabric  of  enchantment  with  a  word  of  royal  com- 
mand. From  the  fitful  fever  of  life,  in  the  turn- 
ing of  a  moment,  he  carries  us  into  that  region  of 


Shakespeare's  sonnets  25 

eventual  calm  wherefrom  the  stage  of  the  world 
seems  as  a  little  point  at  a  mighty  distance.  He 
who  created  this  troubled  scene  is  no  longer  a 
partaker  in  its  passionate  perplexities  ;  he  stands 
a  great  way  off,  apart  from  it  and  above  it,  and 
looks  down  where,  far  beneath, 

.     .     .     the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  this  aspect  of  his  genius, 
though  we  may  animadvert,  by  the  way,  that 
Taiue's  criticism,  because  it  fails  to  recognise  this 
other  element  beside  the  passion  of  Shakespeare, 
is  finally  false  and  shallow.  Any  one  will  recall 
the  great  moments  when  the  curtain  of  disillusion 
falls.  It  is  Hamlet's  "The  rest  is  silence";  or 
the  Dauphin's  "  Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told 
tale  Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man";  or 
the  Second  Richard's  "A  brittle  glory  shineth  in 
this  face";  or  Macbeth's  "To-morrow  and  to- 
morrow and  to-morrow";  or  Kent's  "Vex  not 
his  ghost  " ;  or  Prospero's  "  We  are  such  stuff  As 
dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life  Is  rounded 
with  a  sleep."  More  than  that,  there  would 
seem  to  be  something  akin  to  this  inner  peripeteia 
in  the  development  of  Shakespeare's  genius. 
The  peculiar  calm  and  beauty  of  The  Tempest, 
The  Winter's  Talc,  and  the  other  late  plays  have 
often  been  commented  upon.     After  the  tumult 


26  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

of  the  great  tragedies,  those  scenes  of  idyllic  sport 
come  like  the  words  of  Macbeth, 

There 's  nothing  serious  in  mortality, 
All  is  but  toys 

as  if  the  poet,  finding  no  significance  in  the 
thwarted  fates  of  mankind,  had  turned  at  last  to 
the  laughter  of  young  girls  and  the  innocence  of 
flowers. 

No,  we  merely  deceive  ourselves  if  we  go  to 
Shakespeare  for  any  philosophic  systematising 
of  life  or  any  reshaping  of  the  material  afforded 
by  experience  into  a  world  of  artistic  significance, 
such  as  we  look  for  in  the  masters  of  Greek  and 
French  literature.  What  we  do  get  from  him  is  a 
sense  of  boundless  life.  Other  men  have  suffered 
and  enjoyed  privately,  but  in  him  were  brought 
together  all  the  passions  of  mankind  ;  he  is  the 
master  of  human  experience,  and  there  can  come 
to  us  no  pinnacle  of  triumph  or  despair,  of  joy  or 
grief,  no  tragic  melancholy  or  buoyant  humour, 
no  envy  or  hate  or  love  or  pride  or  shame,  but  we 
shall  know  that  he  on  some  day  of  his  brief  life 
has  felt  as  we  feel  and  has  spoken  for  us  better 
than  we  ourselves  can  speak.  And  so  it  is,  I 
think,  that  we  hunger  for  some  direct  word  from 
this  poet,  some  revelation  of  his  own  mind,  more 
than  from  any  other  writer  of  the  world.  What 
had  he  to  say  of  his  passage  through  time  ?  Was 
the  sum  of  it  sweet  or  bitter  to  him  ;  did  he  find  it 
a  simple  matter  to  live,  or  was  he,  too,  infelixfatis 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  27 

cxterritiis  ;  did  he,  in  the  sessions  of  silent  thought, 
regard  with  complacence  his  contact  with  daily 
life,  or  was  there  in  his  memory  still  some  touch 
of  regret — even  of  shame  ?  Just  because  there  is 
here  no  remoulding  of  experience  to  an  ideal,  we 
believe  that  if  he  should  open  his  heart  to  us  in 
these  matters  he  would  exhibit  a  peculiar  frank- 
ness ;  and  because  his  experience  was  broader  and 
deeper  than  that  of  any  other  man,  we  feel  that 
his  word  would  have  extraordinary  validity. 
Could  Shakespeare  confess,  it  would  be,  as  it 
were,  a  confession  of  the  human  race. 

And  to  a  certain  extent  Shakespeare  has  con- 
fessed. I  am  not  so  rash  as  to  suppose  that  here 
and  now  we  shall  pluck  out  the  heart  of  his  mys- 
tery; in  the  end  a  man  of  his  wide-reaching  vision 
must  remain  as  his  own  ^neas  says:  "  The  secrets 
of  nature  have  not  more  gift  in  taciturnity." 
Yet  no  one  can  compare  his  sonnets  with  those  in 
Mr.  Lee's  volumes  without  being  immediately 
impressed  by  the  directness  of  the  self-revelation 
they  contain,  nor  can  I  conceive  any  reason  for 
taking  this  confession  otherwise  than  at  its  face 
value.  And  what  has  he  to  say  for  himself — this 
man  who  ran  through  the  gamut  of  human  emo- 
tions and  made  himself  as  it  were  the  spokesman 
of  the  race  ?  Alas,  it  is  only  the  old  story  re- 
peated. I  do  not  see  how  one  can  read  these  son- 
nets and  not  feel  that  the  sum  of  life  to  the  poet 
of  those  spacious  days  was,  as  it  had  appeared  to 
the  Preacher  of  Israel  long  ago,  Vanity  and  vexa- 


28  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Hon,  and  he  that  increaseth  experience  increaseth 
sorrow  !  Not  seldom,  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  note 
of  serenity  or  triumph,  but  always  there  is  this 
peculiarity,  that  the  more  personal  the  tone  be- 
comes the  sadder  is  its  import. 

He  was,  after  all,  a  child  of  his  age.  There 
was  always  present  with  him  that  sense  of  the 
eternal  flux  of  things  which  is  so  characteristic  of 
the  Renaissance,  but  which,  curiously  enough, 
rarely  appears  in  the  other  Elizabethan  sonneteers, 
however  common  it  may  be  in  the  dramatists.  It 
is  safe  to  say  that  no  single  motive  or  theme  recurs 
more  persistently  through  the  whole  course  of 
Shakespeare's  works  than  this  consciousness  of 
the  servile  depredations  of  time,  that  ' '  ceaseless 
lackey  to  eternity."  As  with  other  men  of  the 
period,  this  sense  of  brevity  and  mutability  lay 
upon  his  mind  like  an  obsession,  and  no  small 
part  of  the  tragic  pathos  in  his  plays  arises  from 
the  jostling  together  of  the  insatiable  desires  of 
youth  with  the  ever  imminent  perception  of  evan- 
escence. One  wonders  whether  Bacon  could  have 
had  in  recollection  these  apostrophes  to  time  when 
he  wrote  in  his  Essays :  "It  is  not  good  to  look 
too  long  upon  these  turning- wheels  of  vicissitude, 
lest  we  become  giddy." 

Of  the  great  passages  in  the  dramas  which  re- 
vert to  this  theme  I  need  saj*-  nothing,  for  they  are 
fresh  in  the  memory  of  us  all.  But  it  is  just  as 
prominent,  though  possibly  less  familiar,  in  the 
poems.     In  the  very  midst  of  L,ucrece's  agony 


SHAKESPEARE  S   SONNETS  29 

she  forgets  herself  awhile  to  rail  against  this 
power  that  "turn[s]  the  giddy  round  of  Fortune's 
wheel ' ' : 

Mis-shapen  Time,  copesmate  of  ugly  Night, 
Swift  subtle  post,  carrier  of  grisly  care  ! 

And  in  the  Venus  and  Adonis  the  thought,  here 
in  its  milder  aspect,  is  still  more  essential. 

The  tender  spring  upon  thy  tempting  lip 

Shews  thee  unripe  yet  mayst  thou  well  be  tasted ; 

Make  use  of  time,  let  not  advantage  slip  ; 

Beauty  within  itself  should  not  be  wasted  : 

Fair  flowers  that  are  not  gathered  in  their  prime 
Rot  and  consume  themselves  in  little  time — 

cries  Venus  to  the  reluctant  youth,  and  the  real 
charm  of  this  first  heir  of  Shakespeare's  invention 
resides  in  a  young  poet's  pity  for  what  Freneau 
long  afterwards  was  to  call  ' '  the  frail  duration  of 
a  flower,"  and  in  his  longing  to  conquer  muta- 
bility by  the  prowess  of  love: 

Seeds  spring  from  seeds  and  beauty  breedeth  beauty. 

We  are  carried  by  this  theme  immediately  to 
the  earlier  sonnets  of  the  collection  in  which 
Shakespeare  scolds  his  boy  friend  for  cherishing 
an  ' '  unthrifty  loveliness  ' ' : 

Thy  unused  beauty  must  be  tombed  with  thee. 

So  striking  is  the  resemblance  between  these  first 
seventeen  sonnets  and  this  part  of  the  Venus  and 


30  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

Adonis  just  alluded  to  that  the  poem  would  seem 
to  be  a  mere  dramatisation  or  obj edification  (if  I 
may  use  the  repellent  word)  of  the  more  personal 
expression  of  the  idea,  and  would  afford  pretty 
strong  confirmation  of  the  opinion  that  the  early 
sonnets,  at  least,  were  written  about  the  year  1593 
(the  date  of  Ve?ius  and  Adonis)  and  were  addressed 
to  that  Earl  of  Southampton  to  whom  the  poem 
was  dedicated.  Everything,  too, — both  the  habit 
of  poets  in  those  days  and  the  unmistakable  con- 
tinuity of  thought  running  through  the  greater 
number  of  Shakespeare's  series, — would  indicate 
that  the  succeeding  sonnets  were  meant  for  the 
same  person,  although  some  of  them  may  have 
been  written  considerably  later.  Even  in  the 
more  tragic  part  that  was  to  come  afterwards, 
when  the  hesitant  friend  accepted  Shakespeare's 
advice  quite  too  literally,  he  turns  the  theme  of 
the  Venus  and  Adonis  to  the  culprit's  exoneration: 

Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won, 
Beauteous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assailed  ; 
And  when  a  woman  woos  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  prevailed  ? 

Indeed,  it  might  be  a  question  whether  the  dra- 
matisation of  the  subject  was  undertaken  to  con- 
firm the  earlier  exhortation,  or  later,  when  the 
turning  point  of  the  sonnet-story  occurred,  to 
uphold  the  example  of  Adonis  to  the  tempted, 
wavering  youth.  In  either  case  the  sonnets  of 
both   periods  and  the   poem   would  seem  to  be 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  3  I 

written  under  the  same  inspiration  and  not  far 
apart  in  time. 

Nor  is  it  really  so  difficult  to  explain,  theoretic- 
ally, the  mood  in  which  Shakespeare  wrote  those 
earlier  exhortations  as  the  mountainous  contro- 
versy over  them  would  lead  one  to  suppose. 
Consider  that  this  ambitious  young  poet  had  come 
up  to  London  with  a  hunger  for  beauty  unequalled 
perhaps  in  the  history  of  literature;  and  that  with 
this  hunger  went  the  haunting  consciousness  of 
the  uncertainty  and  mutability  of  things  which 
was  a  part  also  of  this  Renaissance  inheritance. 
Naturally  when,  in  the  years  following  the  first 
riot  of  youth,  he  fell  under  the  sway  of  the  noble 
boy,  at  once  his  patron  and  his  love  (whether  it 
was  Southampton  or  another)  —  naturally  this 
perilous  perception  of  beauty  with  its  poignant 
regret  threw  an  ideal  colour  over  their  friendship. 
And  by  virtue  of  that  mingling  together  in  Eng- 
land of  the  currents  of  the  Renaissance  and  the 
Reformation,  Shakespeare's  passion  for  the  boy 
took  on  something  of  the  sensuousness  of  that  re- 
lation as  it  was  adopted  in  Italy  from  classical 
tradition  and  at  the  same  time  the  moral  pudor  of 
the  northern  races.  The  result  is  thus  easily  ex- 
plained in  theory,  but  to  most  readers  of  to-day 
the  realisation  of  this  mixed  sentiment  is  not  a 
little  baffling  ;  the  sonnets  would  probably  leave 
them  quite  cold  were  it  not  that  Shakespeare's 
confession  deals  also  with  larger  matters.  His 
love  for  the  youth  becomes,  in  fact,  a  beautiful 


32  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

symbol  of  that  war  against  Time  which  runs 
through  all  his  work.  In  this  respect  the  fifteenth 
sonnet  may  be  regarded  as  the  keynote  of  the 
whole  first  group,  although  in  poetic  diction  it 
cannot  be  ranked  among  the  highest: 

When  I  consider  everything  that  grows 
Holds  in  perfection  hut  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  stage  presenteth  nought  hut  shows, 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment  ; 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 
Cheered  and  checked  even  by  the  self-same  sky, 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease, 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory  ; 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight. 
Where  wasteful  Time  debateth  with  Decay, 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night ; 
And  all  in  war  with  Time  for  love  of  you, 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. 

He  looks  back  to  "  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time," 
and  is  filled  with  alarm  that  the  grace  and  nobility 
of  his  young  friend  also  "  among  the  wastes  of 
time  must  go."  Aided  probably  by  some  family 
circumstances  now  quite  obscure  to  us,  he  appeals 
to  the  "sweet  boy  "  to  defy  the  heavy  hand  of  age 
by  the  creative  faculty  of  love,  and  finds  it  easy  to 
write  this  appeal  with  the  constant  revolt  of  his 
own  nature  against  the  reign  of  mutability.  And 
when,  as  it  appears,  the  malicious  youth  let  his 
exhortations  fall  unheeded,  or  heeded  them  in  a 
manner  quite  foreign  to  the  preacher's  intention 
and  desire,  it  was  still  within  the  range  of  his 


Shakespeare's  sonnets  33 

Renaissance  training  to  seek  to  accomplish  by  the 
power  of  his  own  art  what  the  other  had  failed  to 
acquire  for  himself.  He  will  eternise  in  his  verse 
this  "  flow' ring  pride,  so  fading  and  so  fickle  "  (to 
use  Spenser's  phrase  on  mutability),  and  so  put 
back  the  encroachments  of  decay  ;  he  is  but  one 
of  many  in  those  days  who  sought  the  "  stedfast 
rest  of  all  things"  in  such  an  cere  perennius.  And 
it  soon  grows  evident  that  in  the  sonnets  which 
express  this  hope  the  sense  of  universal  vicissitude 
has  almost  driven  from  view  his  concern  for  the 
particular  \V.  H.,  if  those  were  the  friend's 
initials: 

When  I  have  seeu  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age, 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage  ;     .     .     . 

or  turning  to  man's  estate — 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end ; 

Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend  ;  .  .  . 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

It  is  only  in  this  way,  I  think,  by  connecting 

Shakespeare's  love  for  this  chosen  boy  with  the 

deeper  current  of  his  thought  and  feeling  that  we 

can  understand,  in  part  at  least,  the  riddle  of  the 

sonnets. 
3 


34  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

But,  after  all,  this  restiveness  under  the  hand 
of  time,  however  personally  expressed  by  Shake- 
speare and  however  strangely  omitted  by  his  com- 
patriot sonneteers,  was  a  commonplace  of  his  age 
— of  all  ages  poetically  inspired,  from  Homer's 
' '  Like  as  the  generations  of  leaves ' '  down  to 
Keats' s  "  Forever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  fair." 
It  is  possible  to  go  beyond  this  in  the  sonnets, 
and  to  catch  a  note  of  sadness  which  is  by  no 
means  a  ' '  topic  ' '  of  the  age,  which  is  indeed  now 
and  again  almost  painfully  intimate  and  individual. 
I  am  aware  of  the  temerity  of  such  a  statement, 
but,  taken  as  a  whole  and  with  all  their  splendours 
considered,  these  sonnets  to  me  seem  to  join  with 
the  plays  in  forming  one  of  the  saddest  human 
documents  ever  penned.  There  is  of  course 
humour  here  in  abundance  ;  but  from  the  days  of 
Aristophanes  to  the  present  time  humour  has  had 
a  strange  trick  of  springing  luxuriantly  from  a 
bitter  soil.  It  is  common  also  to  point  to  the 
pastoral  scenes  in  The  Tempest,  The  Winter's 
Tale,  and  the  other  later  dramas  as  a  proof  of  the 
large  joy ousness  and  final  serenity  that  lay  at  the 
basis  of  Shakespeare's  nature ;  and  in  one  sense 
the  assertion  is  perfectly  just.  Yet  here,  as  always, 
it  is  necessary  to  distinguish.  We  may  not  be 
able  to  mark  off  the  passages  with  mathematical 
precision,  but  no  one  can  read  the  plays  with  such 
a  quest  in  mind  without  feeling  in  a  general  way 
that  at  times  the  poet  is  commenting  on  life  in  the 
tone  of  his  own  direct  experience,  and  that  again 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  35 

he  speaks  from  that  far  Olympian  height  where 
his  own  personality  is  forgotten  and  wherefrom 
he  looks  down  upon  the  business  of  men  as  on  the 
pretty  sport  of  children — and  then  it  is  that  the 
tricks  of  Ariel  and  Miranda's  brave  new  world 
become  a  wonder  equal  to  a  dukedom,  and  the 
breath  of  a  dim  violet  grows  as  important  as  the 
jealous  rage  of  Leontes.  This  serenity  is  due,  in 
part,  no  doubt,  to  the  calming  influence  of  years, 
and  falls  like  the  wind-swept  purity  of  the  atmo- 
sphere after  a  storm;  it  is  no  less  the  gift  of  genius, 
with  its  well-known  faculty  of  dwelling  alternately 
within  and  without  itself. 

But  our  concern  to-day  is  with  the  poet's  inner 
life  alone,  and  I  see  no  reason  to  question  the 
common  belief  that  Hamlet  expresses  more  of 
Shakespeare's  personal  experience  than  any  other 
play  or  character.  So  far  as  I  know,  no  one  has 
pointed  out  how  strongly  that  opinion  is  reinforced 
by  the  similarity  of  tone  between  the  dramatic 
utterances  of  Hamlet  and  the  confessions  of  the 
sonnets.  Compare,  for  instance,  the  list  of  evils 
pronounced  by  the  melancholy  Dane: 

The  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes — 

consider  how  foreign  all  these  details  are  to  the 
actual  situation  of  Hamlet  and  how  appropriate 
they  are  to  the  fortune  of  Shakespeare  himself; 


36  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

consider  with  them  the  misplaced  diatribe  of 
Lucrece : 

The  patient  dies  while  the  physician  sleeps ; 

The  orphan  pines  while  the  oppressor  feeds  ; 

Justice  is  feasting  while  the  widow  weeps  ; 

Advice  is  sporting  while  infection  breeds — 

and  then  turn  to  the  sixty-sixth  sonnet  and  see 
how  clearly  they  express  not  the  mere  common- 
place lament  over  the  insufficiency  of  life,  but  the 
poet's  own  very  personal  and  very  bitter  ex- 
perience : 

Tired  with  all  these  for  restful  death  I  cry. 

Indeed,  as  we  read  over  the  sonnets  and  mark 
the  lines  where  he  speaks  his  own  relation  to  the 
whips  and  scorns  of  time,  we  may  well  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  magnitude  and  the  intimacy  of 
the  confession,  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  why 
he  never  gave  this  work  willingly  to  the  public  as 
he  did  his  only  other  two  non-dramatic  poems. 
The  one  word  that  occurs  to  me  as  expressive  of 
his  feeling  is  indignity;  if  it  were  not  for  the 
sound  of  the  word  in  connection  with  so  revered 
a  name  I  should  say  shame — indignity  against 
the  soilure  that  is  forced  upon  him  from  contact 
with  the  world,  shame  for  his  too  facile  yielding 
to  contamination.  The  story  is  best  told  by 
bringing  together  some  of  these  passages  without 
comment: — 

Sonnet  29 : 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  37 

Sonnet  36 : 

I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee, 

Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame. 

Sonnet  37 : 

So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite. 

Sonnet  88 : 

Upon  my  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 

Of  faults  concealed,  wherein  I  am  attainted. 

Sonnet  90 : 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 
Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow. 

Sonnet  112  : 

Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamped  upon  my  brow. 

Sonnet  119 : 
What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distilled  from  limbecs  foul  as  hell  within. 

Sonnet  121 : 

'T  is  better  to  be  vile  than  vile  esteemed. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  lines  that  might  be 
quoted.  Take  them  all  together  and  I  do  not  be- 
lieve you  will  find,  in  the  whole  course  of  English 
literature,  any  confession  comparable  to  them  for 
the  indignity  and  shame  of  a  noble  spirit  outraged 
by  the  familiarity  of  "sluttish  Time."  Some- 
thing of  this  is  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  peculiar 
position  of  the  actor  in  those  days.  Says  Casca, 
when  he  wishes  to  pull  the  great  Caesar  down  into 
the  mire  of  common  buffeted  humanity  :  "  If  the 
tag-rag  people  did  not  clap   him   and   hiss  him 


38  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

according  as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as 
they  use  to  do  the  players  in  the  theatre,  I  am 
no  true  man."  We  do  not  often,  while  under  the 
spell  of  Shakespeare's  magic,  consider  what  it 
must  have  meant  to  so  sensitive  and  self-conscious 
a  nature  as  his  to  have  been  exposed  to  the  out- 
rageous approval  and  disapproval  of  an  Eliza- 
bethan audience.  The  groundlings,  we  know, 
paid  for  the  discomfort  of  their  place  in  the  pit  by 
boisterous  assertion  of  their  pleasure,  and  the 
comments  of  the  nobles  who  sometimes  sat  on  the 
stage  at  the  very  elbows  of  the  actors  must  often 
have  been  as  galling  as  the  jeers  of  the  mob  be- 
low. The  growing  sect  of  the  Puritans,  too,  gave 
them  something  worse  than  contempt.  Thus, 
after  the  earthquake  of  1580,  the  Lord  Mayor  of 
London  writes  to  the  Privy  Council,  April  12th: 

When  it  happened  on  Sundaie  last  that  some  great  dis- 
order was  committed  at  the  Theatre,  I  sent  for  the  under- 
shireve  of  Middlesex  to  understand  the  circumstances,  to 
the  intent  that  by  myself  or  by  him  I  might  have  caused 
such  redresse  to  be  had  as  in  dutie  and  discretion  I  might, 
and  therefore  did  also  send  for  the  plaiers  to  have  apered 
afore  me,  and  the  rather  because  those  playes  doe  make 
assembles  of  cittizens  and  there  families  of  whome  I  have 
charge ;  but  forasmuch  as  I  understand  that  your  Lord- 
ship, with  other  of  his  majesties  most  honourable  Coun- 
sell,  have  entered  into  examination  of  that  matter,  I  have 
surceassed  to  procede  further,  and  do  humbly  refer  the 
whole  to  your  wisdomes  and  grave  considerations  ;  how- 
beit,  I  have  further  thought  it  my  dutie  to  informe  your 
Lordship,  and  therewith  also  to  beseche  to  have  in  your 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  39 

honourable  rememberance,  that  the  players  of  playes 
which  are  used  at  the  Theatre  and  other  such  places,  and 
tumblers  and  such  like,  are  a  very  superfluous  sort  of 
men  and  of  suche  facultie  as  the  lawes  have  disalowed, 
and  their  exersise  of  those  playes  is  a  great  hinderaunce 
of  the  service  of  God,  who  hath  with  His  mighty  hand  so 
lately  admonished  us  of  oure  earnest  repentance. 

Is  it  strange  that  Shakespeare  should  have  re- 
treated from  Iyondon  to  the  quiet  of  his  Stratford 
home  as  soon  as  he  was  freed  from  the  necessity 
of  serving  such  a  public  ?  More  than  once  he 
shows  in  the  sonnets  how  deeply  the  iron  had 
entered  into  his  heart,  and  how  he  felt  the  re- 
proach of  being  classed  among  this  "  very  super- 
fluous sort  of  men."  The  chief  passages  are 
often  quoted  : 

Alas,  't  is  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 

Made  old  offences  of  affections  new  ; 

Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  looked  on  truth 

Askance  and  strangely  ; — 

and,  in  the  following  sonnet: 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Thau  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds  ; 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand,  etc. 

The  confession  is  sufficiently  frank  and  carries  us 
far  enough  away  from  the  elegant  couveutionali- 


40  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

ties  that  ruled  the  other  Elizabethan  sonneteers. 
It  is  not  entirely  pleasant  to  know  that  the  man  we 
reverence  this  side — often  yonder  side — idolatry, 
could  have  laid  his  heart  open  in  this  way  even  in 
the  intimacy  of  friendship. 

But  there  is  a  more  painful  element  in  the  son- 
nets than  mere  outcry  against  the  harshness  of  the 
guilty  goddess.  This  man,  whose  knowledge  of 
the  heart  enabled  him,  without  the  synthetic 
imagination  of  the  other  supreme  poets,  to  build 
up  so  marvellous  a  literature,  whose  sense  of  pas- 
sion was  so  profound  that  it  took  the  place  of 
tragic  conflict  in  other  dramatists — how  is  it  with 
him  when,  laying  aside  the  comfortable  disguise 
of  masque  and  cothurnus,  he  speaks  directly  for 
himself?  We  call  him  the  master  of  human  ex- 
perience, and  that  is  his  honour  to-day  ;  but  how 
was  it  with  him  when  he  stood  on  the  stage  of  the 
Globe  Theatre,  a  motley  to  the  view,  or  indulged 
in  the  wanton  life  of  that  superfluous  sort  of  men 
who  were  his  fellows  ?  If  the  hazard  and  spite  of 
fortune  produced  in  him  a  feeling  of  indignity, 
the  subjection  to  the  wild  beast  within  his  own 
heart  left,  for  a  time  at  least,  what  can  only  be 
called  a  stamp  of  shame.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
dwell  at  length  on  the  particular  incident  which 
forms  the  heart  of  this  confession,  nor  to  make  any 
conjectures  in  regard  to  the  identity  and  charac- 
ter of  that  "  worser  spirit,  a  woman  coloured  ill," 
who  was  his  love  "of  despair."  All  that  is  essen- 
tial is  told  only  too  frankly  in  the  later  sonnets. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    SONNETS  41 

There  are  confessions  of  guilt  in  English — a  plenty 
of  them  ;  but  ordinarily  these  are  made  after  the 
sinner  has  reached  a  state  of  grace,  and  when  we 
probe  the  matter  we  are  likely  to  find,  as  in  the 
case  of  Bunyan,  that  the  remembered  enormities 
were  such  crimes  as  bell-ringing  and  dancing  on 
the  green.  The  peculiarity  of  Shakespeare's  con- 
fession is  that  we  see  a  sensitive  soul  actually  in 
the  toils  of  evil,  which  he  deplores  yet  hugs  to  his 
breast.  It  is  this  association  which  makes  the 
terrible  one  hundred  and  twenty-ninth  sonnet 
unique  in  English — unique,  so  far  as  I  know,  in 
any  language.  Only  the  conscience  of  the  Puri- 
tan united  to  the  libertine  fancy  of  a  Cavalier  (a 
phenomenon  not  easily  conceivable  outside  of 
England)  could  have  produced  those  words  : 

The  expense  of  spirit  iu  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  iu  action.     .     .     . 

All  this  the  world  well  knows  ;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

If  you  wish  to  see  how  much  of  the  world's  ex- 
perience has  entered  into  these  lines,  turn  back  to 
Horace's  Epistles  and  see  in  what  way  the  matter 
presented  itself  to  that  clear-eyed  pagan. 

Sperne  voluptates,  nocet  empta  dolore  voluptas, 

was  the  height  of  his  argument,  and  between  that 
admonition  and  the  anguish  of  Shakespeare  have 
passed  all  the  middle  ages  and  the  whole  of 
Christianity.     Or,  if  you  care  to  set  in  relief  the 


42  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

personal  and  intimate  nature  of  the  sonnet,  com- 
pare it  with  Byron's  stanza  in  Childe  Harold : 

'Tis  an  old  lesson  ;  Time  approves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost, 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion  ! 

The  thought  is  the  same  as  Shakespeare's,  but  it 
is  expressed  by  a  man  of  the  world  who  speaks 
the  wisdom  of  his  kind  ;  there  is  lacking  that  in- 
dividual conviction  of  sin,  as  the  Puritans  whom 
Shakespeare  so  despised  would  have  called  it. 

We  must  not,  however,  forget  that  these  son- 
nets were  not  written  for  the  world  to  read,  but 
for  the  privacy  of  one  or  two  persons;  their  enigma 
would  indeed  be  inexplicable  were  they  intended 
for  the  public.  And  just  as  Shakespeare's  sense 
of  universal  vicissitude  is  the  true  means  of  inter- 
preting the  opening  appeal  to  the  boy  friend  to 
perpetuate  his  beauty  through  the  power  of  love, 
so  the  indignities  of  his  public  career,  in  his  early 
years  at  least,  and  the  remorse  of  submission  to 
his  own  passions  are  the  only  explanation  of  those 
extravagant  terms  of  admiration  and  love  which 
he  bestows  on  his  young  patron. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  believe  all  the  stories  of 
Shakespeare's  irregular  youth,  yet  we  can  hardly 
doubt  that  his  beginnings  in  L,ondon  were  humble 
and  not  desirable  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.     What 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  43 

he  wrung  from  fortune  came  by  struggle  and  by 
coining  the  experience  of  his  life  for  public  usage. 
In  comparison  with  his  own  ragged  honours,  the 
brilliant  person  of  such  a  child  of  fortune  as 
Southampton  would  seem  to  hold  as  a  visible 
symbol  all  that  he  sought  and  could  obtain,  if 
obtained  even  in  part,  only  by  paying  for  it  in 
the  sanctities  of  his  own  character.  Southampton 
(or  another),  beautiful,  proud,  desired  of  women, 
rich,  to  whom  Fortune  gave  all  things  without 
price,  was  more  than  a  person  to  Shakespeare,  he 
was  an  ideal ;  and  the  poet's  devotion  to  this 
patron,  his  almost  cringing  submission  to  a  boy's 
whims,  is  only  comprehensible  when  we  consider 
the  relation  between  the  two  in  this  light.  There 
is  in  the  friendship  the  vicarious  power  of  trans- 
mitting virtues  : 

Thy  love  is  better  than  high  birth  to  me, 
Richer  than  wealth,  prouder  than  garments'  cost, 
Of  more  delight  than  hawks  or  horses  be  : 
And  having  thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast. 

Almost  the  association  with  this  ideal  of  youth  is 
able  to  cleanse  the  stains  of  time.  Editors  have 
been  troubled  by  the  lines  in  which  Shakespeare 
speaks  of  his  age — 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayest  in  me  behold— 

and  have  cited  them  as  proof  that  the  sonnets 
must  have  been  composed  later  than  1594,  when 
he  was  only  thirty.     They  forget  that  this  early 


44  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

assumption  of  age  was  a  commonplace  of  the  Re- 
naissance. And,  apart  from  this,  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  difficulty  is  solved  by  making  him 
thirty-six  or  thirty-eight ;  even  at  that  age  the 
ordinary  man  is  not  quite  in  the  yellow  leaf. 
The  fact  is  that  the  very  intensity  of  Shake- 
speare's passions  and  the  depth  of  his  experience 
made  him  feel  thus  old  in  comparison  with  one 
untried  by  life.  And  in  the  freshness  of  his 
friend's  blossoming  he  would  find  a  cloak  for  his 
own  losses  at  the  hand  of  Time: 

But  when  my  glass  shews  me  myself,  indeed, 
Beated  and  chopt  with  tanned  antiquity, 
Mine  own  self  love  quite  contrary  I  read, 
Self  so  self-loving  were  iniquity. 

'Tis  thee  (myself)  that  for  myself  I  praise 
Painting  my  age  with  beauty  of  thy  days. 

Yet,  even  considered  in  this  way,  there  remains 
something  disconcerting  in  the  peculiar  tone  of 
self-humiliation  which  Shakespeare  assumes  be- 
fore a  fledgling  of  the  Court.  He  pays  more 
than  the  ordinary  adulation  of  the  poets  in  those 
days,  and  pays  it  in  a  different  kind  : 

Is  it  thy  spirit  that  thou  send'st  from  thee 
So  far  from  home  into  my  deeds  to  prye, 
To  find  out  shames  and  idle  hours  in  me? 

And  the  triangular  comedy,  in  which  Shakespeare 
and  his  two  loves  of  comfort  and  despair  play  their 
extraordinary  r61es,  leaves  the  poet  in  a  position 


SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS  45 

not  calculated  to  enhance  his  honour  in  the  eyes 
of  saint  or  worldling.  Something  of  this  whole 
relation  between  the  great  exemplar  of  human  ex- 
perience and  his  boyish  patron  may  be  accounted 
for  by  the  poet's  faculty  of  dramatising  the  gap  in 
his  own  nature  between  ideal  and  reality  ;  some- 
thing of  it  is  still  inexplicable,  an  enigma  never 
meant  for  our  solving,  and  best,  no  doubt,  left  in 
obscurity. 

And  if  you  ask  me,  then,  why  I  have  at- 
tempted, so  far  as  I  could,  to  lay  bare  this 
darker  side  of  Shakespeare's  character,  my  only 
reply  is  that  there  is  a  fascination  in  following 
out  what  seems  to  one  the  truth.  And,  after  all, 
some  comfort,  not  of  an  ignoble  sort  I  trust, 
abounds  in  knowing  a  little  more  precisely  that 
this  spokesman  of  mankind  rose  to  the  power 
and  tranquillity  of  his  vision  through  experiences 
very  like  our  own,  and  that  he,  too,  suffered  the 
indignities  of  time  and  the  remorse  of  his  own 
excesses. 


LAFCADIO   HEARN 

There  was  something  almost  as  romantic  in  Mr. 
Hearn's  life  as  in  his  books.  He  was,  I  believe, 
the  child  of  an  Irish  father  and  a  woman  of  the 
Greek  islands  ;  his  early  manhood  he  passed  in 
this  country,  and  then  converted  himself  into  a 
subject  of  the  Mikado,  taking  a  Japanese  wife  and 
adopting  the  customs  and  religion  of  the  land. 
On  his  death  this  winter  (1904)  he  was  buried 
with  full  Buddhist  rites,  being  the  first  foreigner 
so  distinguished  in  Japan;  and  almost  his  last  act 
was  to  pass  by  cablegram  on  the  final  proofs  of 
his  most  serious  attempt  to  transfer  the  illusive 
mystery  of  the  Orient  into  Western  speech.  His 
yapa?i,  an  Interpretation  thus  rounded  out  what 
must  be  deemed  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
artistic  achievements  of  modern  days.  For  it  is 
as  an  art  of  strange  subtlety  that  we  should  regard 
his  literary  work,  an  art  that,  like  some  sympa- 
thetic menstruum,  has  fused  into  one  compound 
three  elements  never  before  brought  together. 

In  the  mere  outward  manner  of  this  art  there 
is,  to  be  sure,  nothing  mysterious.  One  recog- 
nises immediately  throughout  his  writing  that 
sense  of  restraint  joined  with  a  power  of  after- 
46 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  47 

suggestion,  which  he  has  described  as  appertain- 
ing to  Japanese  poetry,  but  which  is  no  less  his 
own  by  native  right.  There  is  a  term,  ittakkiri, 
it  seems,  meaning  "  all  gone,"  or  "  entirely  van- 
ished," which  is  applied  contemptuously  by  the 
Japanese  to  verse  that  tells  all  and  trusts  nothing 
to  the  reader's  imagination.  Their  praise  they 
reserve  for  compositions  that  leave  in  the  mind 
the  thrilling  of  a  something  unsaid.  "  Like  the 
single  stroke  of  a  bell,  the  perfect  poem  should 
set  murmuring  and  undulating,  in  the  mind  of 
the  hearer,  many  a  ghostly  aftertone  of  long  dura- 
tion." Now  these  ghostly  reverberations  are  pre- 
cisely the  effect  of  the  simplest  of  Mr.  Hearn's 
pictures.  Let  him  describe,  for  instance,  the  im- 
pression produced  by  walking  down  the  deep 
canon  of  Broadway,  between  those  vast  structures, 
beautiful  but  sinister,  where  one  feels  depressed 
by  the  mere  sensation  of  enormous  creative  life 
without  sympathy  and  of  unresting  power  with- 
out pity, — let  him  describe  this  terror  of  Broad- 
way, and  in  a  few  words  he  shall  set  ringing 
within  you  long  pulsations  of  emotion  which 
reach  down  to  the  depths  of  experience.  Or,  let 
him  relate  by  mere  allusion  the  story  of  hearing 
a  girl  say  "Good-night"  to  some  one  parting 
from  her  in  a  London  park,  and  there  shall  be 
awakened  in  your  mind  ghostly  aftertones  that 
bring  back  memories  of  the  saddest  separations 
and  regrets  of  life.  He  employs  the  power  of 
suggestion  through  perfect  restraint. 


48  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

But  this  self-restrained  and  suggestive  style  is 
merely  the  instrument,  the  manner,  so  to  speak, 
of  his  art.  If  we  examine  the  actual  substance 
of  his  writings,  we  shall  discover  that  it  is  bor- 
rowed from  three  entirely  distinct,  in  fact  almost 
mutually  destructive,  philosophies,  any  one  of 
which  alone  would  afford  material  for  the  genius 
of  an  ordinary  writer.  He  stands  and  proclaims 
his  mysteries  at  the  meeting  of  three  ways.  To 
the  religious  instinct  of  India, — Buddhism  in  par- 
ticular, —  which  history  has  engrafted  on  the 
aesthetic  sense  of  Japan,  Mr.  Hearn  brings  the 
interpreting  spirit  of  Occidental  science ;  and 
these  three  traditions  (Hindu,  Japanese,  and 
European)  are  fused  by  the  peculiar  sympathies 
of  his  mind  into  one  rich  and  novel  compound, — 
a  compound  so  rare  as  to  have  introduced  into 
literature  a  psychological  sensation  unknown  be- 
fore. More  than  any  other  recent  author,  he  has 
added  a  new  thrill  to  our  intellectual  experience. 

Of  Japan,  which  gives  the  most  obvious  sub- 
stratum to  Mr.  Hearn's  work,  it  has  been  said  that 
her  people,  since  the  days  of  ancient  Greece,  are 
the  only  genuine  artists  of  the  world  ;  and  in  a 
manner  this  is  true.  There  was  a  depth  and 
pregnancy  in  the  Greek  imagination  which  made 
of  Greek  art  something  far  more  universally  sig- 
nificant than  the  frail  loveliness  of  Japanese  crea- 
tion, but  not  the  Greeks  themselves  surpassed,  or 
even  equalled,  the  Japanese  in  their  all-embracing 
love  of  decorative  beauty.     To  read  the  story  of 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  49 

the  daily  life  of  these  people,  as  recorded  by 
Mr.  Mortimer  Menpes  and  other  travellers,  is 
to  be  brought  into  contact  with  a  national  tem- 
perament so  far  removed  from  Western  compre- 
hension as  to  seem  to  most  of  us  a  tale  from 
fairyland.  When,  for  instance,  Mr.  Menpes, 
with  a  Japanese  friend,  visited  Danjuro,  he  found 
a  single  exquisite  kakemono,  or  painting,  dis- 
played in  the  great  actor's  chamber.  On  admir- 
ing its  beauty,  he  was  told  by  the  friend  that 
Danjuro  had  taken  pains  to  learn  the  precise 
character  of  his  visitor's  taste,  and  only  then  had 
exhibited  this  particular  picture.  To  the  Japan- 
ese the  hanging  of  a  kakemono  or  the  arranging 
of  a  bough  of  blossoms  is  a  serious  function  of  life. 
The  placing  of  flowers  is  indeed  an  exact  science, 
to  the  study  of  which  a  man  may  devote  seven 
years,  even  fourteen  years,  before  he  will  be 
acknowledged  a  master.  Nature  herself  is  sub- 
jected to  this  elaborate  system  of  training,  and 
often  what  in  a  Japanese  landscape  seems  to  a 
foreigner  the  exuberance  of  natural  growth  is 
really  the  work  of  patient  human  artifice. 

There  is  no  accident  [writes  Mr.  Menpes]  in  the 
beautiful  curves  of  the  trees  that  the  globe-trotter  so 
justly  admires  :  these  trees  have  been  traiued  and  shaped 
and  forced  to  form  a  certain  decorative  pattern,  and  the 
result  is — perfection.  We  in  the  West  labour  uuder  the 
delusion  that  if  Nature  were  to  be  allowed  to  have  her 
sweet  way,  she  would  always  be  beautiful.  But  the 
Japanese  have  gone  much  farther  than  this  :  they  realise 


50  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

that  Nature  does  not  always  do  the  right  thing ;  they 
know  that  occasionally  trees  will  grow  up  to  form  ugly 
lines  ;  and  they  know  exactly  how  to  adapt  and  help  her. 
She  is  to  them  like  some  beautiful  musical  instrument, 
finer  than  any  ever  made  by  human  hands,  but  still  an 
instrument,  with  harmonies  to  be  coaxed  out. 

And  the  same  aesthetic  delicacy,  touched  with 
artificiality  if  you  will,  pervades  the  literature  of 
this  people.  We  are  accustomed,  and  rightly,  to 
regard  the  Japanese  as  a  nation  of  imitators.  But 
their  poetry,  we  are  assured  by  Mr.  Hearn,  is  the 
one  original  art  which  they  have  not  borrowed 
from  China,  or  from  any  other  country  ;  and  no- 
where better  than  in  their  poetry  can  we  observe 
the  swiftness  and  dexterity  of  their  imagination 
and  that  exquisite  reserve  with  its  haunting  echo 
in  the  memory.  To  reproduce  in  English  the 
peculiar  daintiness  of  these  poems  is,  we  are  told 
and  can  well  believe,  quite  an  impossibility  ;  but 
from  the  seemingly  careless  translations  scattered 
through  Mr.  Hearn 's  pages  we  do  at  least  form 
some  notion  of  their  art  in  the  original.  Many 
of  these  stanzas  are  mere  bits  of  folk-lore  or  the 
work  of  unknown  singers,  like  this  tiny  picture 
of  the  cicada : 

Lo !  on  the  topmost  pine,  a  solitary  cicada 
Vainly  attempts  to  clasp  one  last  red  beam  of  sun. 

That  is  light  enough  in  English,  but  even  one 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  Japanese  language  can 
see  that,  in  comparison  with  the  rhythm  of  the 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  5  I 

original,1  it  is  like  the  step  of  a  quadruped  com- 
pared with  the  fluttering  of  a  moth.  It  contains 
only  sixteen  syllables  in  the  original  ;  and  indeed 
all  these  poems  are  wrought  into  the  brief  compass 
of  a  stanza,  like  certain  fragile  little  vases  painted 
inside  and  out  which  are  so  highly  prized  by  con- 
noisseurs. Yet  these  tiny  word-paintings,  by 
virtue  of  their  cunning  restraint,  are  capable  at 
times  of  gathering  into  their  loveliness  echoes  of 
emotion  as  wide-reaching  as  love  and  as  deep  as 
the  grave: 

Perhaps  a  freak  of  the  wind — yet  perhaps  a  sign  of  re- 
membrance,— 
This  fall  of  a  single  leaf  on  the  water  I  pour  for  the  dead. 

I  whispered  a  prayer  at  the  grave :  a  butterfly  rose  and 

fluttered — 
Thy  spirit,  perhaps,  dear  friend  ! 

To  have  been  able  to  convey  through  the  coarser 
medium  of  English  prose  something  of  this  aes- 
thetic grace,  this  deftness  of  touch,  and  this  sug- 
gestiveness  of  restraint,  would  in  itself  deserve  no 
slight  praise.  But  beneath  all  this  artistic  deli- 
cacy lies  some  reminiscence  of  India's  austere  re- 
ligious thought,  a  sense  of  the  nothingness  of  life 
strangely  exiled  among  this  people  of  graceful 
artists,   yet  still   more  strangely  assimilated  by 

1  Semi  hitotsu 

Matsu  no  yu-bi  wo 

Kaka£-keri. 


52  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

them  ;  and  this,  too,  Mr.  Hearn  has  been  able  to 
reproduce.  We  feel  this  shadow  of  India's  faith 
lurking  in  the  sunshine  of  many  of  the  lightest 
of  the  stanzas, — a  touch  of  swift  exotic  poignancy, 
if  nothing  more.  We  feel  it  still  more  strongly  in 
such  poems  as  these,  which  are  inspired  by  the 
consciousness  of  endless  change  and  of  unceasing 
birth  and  death  and  again  birth: 

All  things  change,  we  are  told,  in  this  world  of  change 

and  sorrow  ; 
But  love's   way   never  changes  of  promising  never  to 

change. 

Even  the  knot  of  the  rope  tying  our  boats  together 
Knotted  was  long  ago  by  some  love  in  a  former  birth. 

Endless  change,  a  ceaseless  coming  and  going, 
and  the  past  throwing  its  shadow  on  into  the 
future,— that  is  the  very  essence  of  Hindu  philo- 
sophy ;  but  how  the  tone  of  this  philosophy  has 
itself  become  altered  in  passing  from  the  valley  of 
the  Ganges  to  the  decorated  island  of  the  Mikado! 
Over  and  over  again  Buddha  repeats  the  essential 
law  of  being,  that  all  things  are  made  up  of  con- 
stituent parts  and  are  subject  to  flux  and  change, 
that  all  things  are  impermanent.  It  is  the  All 
things  pass  and  nothing  abides  of  the  Greek  philo- 
sopher, deepened  with  the  intensity  of  emotion 
that  makes  of  philosophy  a  religion.  In  this 
ever-revolving  wheel  of  existence  one  fact  only  is 
certain,  karma,  the  law  of  cause  and  effect  which 


LAFCADIO    IIEARN  53 

declares  that  every  present  state  is  the  effect  of 
some  previous  act  and  that  every  present  act  must 
inevitably  bear  its  fruit  in  some  future  state.  As 
a  man  soweth  so  shall  he  reap.  We  are  indeed 
the  creatures  of  a  fate  which  we  ourselves  have 
builded  by  the  deeds  of  a  former  life.  We  are 
bound  in  chains  which  we  ourselves  have  riveted, 
yet  still  our  desires  are  free,  and  as  our  desires 
shape  themselves,  so  we  act  and  build  up  our 
coming  fate,  our  karma  ;  and  as  our  desires  abne- 
gate themselves,  so  we  cease  to  act  and  become 
liberated  from  the  world.  Endless  change  subject 
to  the  law  of  cause  and  effect — not  even  our  per- 
sonality remains  constant  in  this  meaningless 
flux,  for  it  too  is  made  up  of  constituent  parts 
and  is  dissolved  at  death  as  the  body  is  dissolved, 
leaving  only  its  karma  to  build  up  the  new  per- 
sonality with  the  new  body.  From  the  perception 
of  this  universal  impermanence  springs  the  so- 
called  ' '  Truth  ' '  of  Buddhism,  that  sorrow  is  the 
attribute  of  all  existence.  Birth  is  sorrow,  old 
age  is  sorrow,  death  is  sorrow,  every  desire  of  the 
heart  is  sorrow  ;  and  the  mission  of  Buddha  was 
to  deliver  men  out  of  the  bondage  of  this  sorrow 
as  from  the  peril  of  a  burning  house.  The  song 
of  victory  uttered  by  Gotama  when  the  great  en- 
lightenment shone  upon  him,  and  he  became  the 
Buddha,  was  the  cry  of  a  man  who  has  escaped  a 
great  evil. 

But  because  the  Buddhist  so  dwells  on  the  im- 
permanence and  sorrow  of  existence,  he  is  not 


$4  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

therefore  properly  called  a  pessimist.  On  the 
contrary,  the  one  predominant  note  of  Buddhism 
is  joy,  for  it  too  is  a  gospel  of  glad  tidings.  The 
builders  who  rear  these  prison  houses  of  life  are 
nothing  other  than  the  desires  of  our  own  hearts, 
and  these  we  may  control  though  all  else  is  be- 
yond our  power.  To  the  worldly  this  teaching  of 
Buddha  may  seem  wrapped  in  pessimistic  gloom, 
for  deliverance  to  them  must  be  only  another 
name  for  annihilation  ;  but  to  the  spiritually 
minded  it  brought  ineffable  joy,  for  they  knew 
that  deliverance  meant  the  passing  out  of  the 
bondage  of  personality  into  a  freedom  of  whose 
nature  no  tongue  could  speak.  It  is  an  austere 
faith,  hardly  suited,  in  its  purer  form,  for  the 
sentimental  and  vacillating, — austere  in  its  recog- 
nition of  sorrow,  austere  in  its  teaching  of  spiritual 

joy- 
Yet  the  wonderful  adaptability  of  Buddhism  is 
shown  by  its  acceptance  among  the  Japanese,  cer- 
tainly of  all  peoples  the  most  dissimilar  in  temper- 
ament to  the  ancient  Hindus.  Here  the  brooding 
of  the  Hindu  over  the  law  of  impermaneuce  melts 
into  the  peculiar  sensitiveness  to  fleeting  impres- 
sions so  characteristic  of  the  Japanese,  and  the 
delicacy  of  their  sesthetic  taste  is  enhanced  by 
this  half-understood  spiritual  insight.  And  it 
deepens  their  temperament:  I  think  that  the  feel- 
ing awakened  by  all  these  dainty  stanzas  of  some- 
thing not  said  but  only  hinted,  that  the  avoidance 
of  ittakkiri  to  which  Mr.  Hearn  alludes,  the  echo- 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  55 

ing  reverberations  that  haunt  us  after  the  single 
stroke  of  the  bell,  are  due  to  the  residuum  of 
Hindu  philosophy  left  in  these  vases  of  Japanese 
art.  "Buddhism,"  writes  Mr.  Hearn,  "taught 
that  nature  was  a  dream,  an  illusion,  a  phantasma- 
goria ;  but  it  also  taught  men  [men  of  Japan,  he 
should  say]  how  to  seize  the  fleeting  impressions 
of  that  dream,  and  how  to  interpret  them  in  rela- 
tion to  the  highest  truth." 

Buddhism  when  it  passed  over  to  Japan  came 
into  contact  with  the  national  religion  of  Shinto, 
a  kind  of  ancestor-worship,  which  proclaimed 
that  the  world  of  the  living  was  directly  governed 
by  the  world  of  the  dead.  On  this  popular  belief 
the  doctrine  of  karma  was  readily  engrafted,  and 
the  two  flourished  henceforth  side  by  side.  Faith 
in  the  protecting  presence  of  ancestors  and  faith 
in  the  present  efficacy  of  our  own  multitudinous 
preexistence  were  inextricably  confused.  To  the 
Japanese  Buddhist  the  past  does  not  die,  but 
lives  on  without  end,  involving  the  present  in  an 
infinite  web  of  invisible  influences  not  easily  com- 
prehensible to  the  Western  mind. 

And  the  Indian  horror  of  impermanence  and 
the  rapture  of  deliverance  have  suffered  like  trans- 
formation with  their  causes.  First  of  all,  the 
sharp  contrast  between  the  horror  and  the  joy  is 
lightened.  The  sorrow  fades  to  a  fanciful  feeling 
of  regret  for  the  beauty  of  the  passing  moment, — 
the  same  regret  that  speaks  through  a  thousand 
Western   songs  such  as  Herrick's  "Gather  ye 


56  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

rosebuds  while  ye  may,"  and  Malherbe's  "  Et 
rose  elle  a  vecu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses,"  but 
touched  here  in  Japanese  poetry  with  a  little  mys- 
tery and  made  more  insistent  by  some  echo  of 
Hindu  brooding.  And  the  joy,  severed  from  its 
spiritual  sustenance,  loses  its  high  ecstasy  and 
becomes  almost  indistinguishable  from  regret. 
Sorrow,  too,  and  joy  are  impermanent,  and  the 
enlightened  mind  dwells  lingeringly  and  fondly 
on  each  fair  moment  garnered  from  the  waste  of 
Time.  Here  is  no  longer  the  spiritual  exaltation, 
the  dhyana,  of  the  Indian  monk,  but  the  charmed 
impressions  of  the  artist.  The  religion  of  the 
Ganges  has  assumed  in  Japan  the  mask  of  aes- 
thetic emotionalism. 

Now  this  refinement  of  emotionalism  Mr.  Hearn 
by  his  peculiar  temperament  has  been  able  to  re- 
produce almost  miraculously  in  the  coarser  fibre 
of  English.  But  more  specially  he  has  sought  to 
interpret  the  deeper  influence  of  India  on  Japan, 
— the  thoughts  and  images  in  which  we  see  the 
subtlety  of  the  Japanese  turned  aside  into  a  strange 
new  psychology.  One  may  suppose  that  some 
tendency  to  mingle  grace  and  beauty  with  haunt- 
ing suggestions  was  inherent  in  the  Japanese 
temper  from  the  beginning,  but  certainly  the  par- 
ticular form  of  imagination  that  runs  through 
most  of  the  tales  Mr.  Hearn  has  translated  is  not 
the  product  of  Japan  alone.  Nor  is  it  purely 
Hindu:  the  literature  of  India  includes  much  that 
is  grotesque  but  hardly  a  touch  of  the  weird  or 


LAFCADIO    1IEARN  57 

ghostly,  for  its  religious  tone  is  too  austere  and 
lacks  the  suggestive  symbolism  which  that  quality 
demands.  Out  of  the  blending  of  the  stern  sense 
of  impermanence  and  moral  responsibility  with 
the  flower-like  beauty  of  Japan  there  arises  this 
new  feeling  of  the  weird.  How  intimately  the 
two  tempers  are  blended  and  how  rare  their  pro- 
duct is,  may  be  seen  in  such  sketches  as  that 
called  Ingwa-banashi :  A  Tale  of  Karma. 

Had  it  been  that  Mr.  Hearn's  art  sufficed  only 
to  reproduce  the  delicacy  and  haunting  strange- 
ness of  Japanese  tales,  he  would  have  performed 
a  notable  but  scarcely  an  extraordinary  service  to 
letters.  But  into  the  study  of  these  byways  of 
Oriental  literature  he  has  carried  a  third  element, 
the  dominant  idea  of  Occidental  science  ;  and  this 
element  he  has  wedded  with  Hindu  religion  and 
Japanese  sestheticism  in  a  union  as  bewildering  as 
it  is  voluptuous.  In  this  triple  combination  lies 
his  real  claim  to  high  originality. 

Now  the  fact  is  well  known  to  those  who  have 
studied  Buddhism  at  its  genuine  sources  that  our 
modern  conception  of  evolution  fits  into  Buddhist 
psychology  more  readily  and  completely  than  into 
any  dogmatic  theology  of  the  West.  It  is  natural, 
therefore,  that  the  Western  authors  quoted  most 
freely  by  Mr.  Hearn  in  support  of  his  Oriental 
meditations  should  be  Huxley  and  Herbert 
Spencer.  For  the  most  part  these  allusions  to 
Western  science  are  merely  made  in  passing. 
But  in  one  essay,  that  on  The  Idea  of  Preexistence, 


58  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

he  endeavours  with  something  of  philosophic  sys- 
tem to  develop  the  harmony  between  evolution 
and  the  Buddhist  conception  of  previous  exist- 
ences, a  conception  which,  as  he  shows,  has  little 
in  common  with  the  crude  form  of  metempsychosis 
embodied  by  Wordsworth  in  such  poems  as  Fidelity 
and  Intimations  of  Immortality.  To  justify  his 
theory  he  turns  to  Professor  Huxley  and  quotes 
these  words:  "  None  but  very  hasty  thinkers  will 
reject  it  on  the  ground  of  inherent  absurdity. 
Like  the  doctrine  of  evolution  itself,  that  of  trans- 
migration has  its  roots  in  the  world  of  reality;  and 
it  may  claim  such  support  as  the  great  argument 
from  analogy  is  capable  of  supplying."  Again, 
in  his  essay  on  Nirv&na  he  compares  the  doctrine 
of  impermanence,  out  of  which  the  conception  of 
Nirvana  springs  as  a  natural  corollary,  with  simi- 
lar ideas  in  evolutional  scieuce.  "  Every  feeling 
and  thought, "  so  he  quotes  from  Herbert  Spencer, 
"  being  but  transitory  ;  nay,  the  objects  amid 
which  life  is  passed,  though  less  transitory,  being 
severally  in  the  course  of  losing  their  individuali- 
ties, whether  quickly  or  slowly, — we  learn  that 
the  one  thing  permanent  is  the  Unknowable  Reality 
hidden  tinder  all  these  changing  shapes.'" 

The  parallel  is  at  once  apt  and  misleading.  In 
both  Oriental  faith  and  Occidental  science  we  do 
indeed  have  the  conception  of  all  phenomena,  in- 
cluding that  ultimate  phenomenon  which  we  name 
our  personality, — we  do  indeed  have  the  concep- 
tion of  these  as  suffering  endless  flux  and  change 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  59 

behind  which  lies  a  permanent  inexpressible 
Reality.  The  parallel  so  far  is  close  and  makes 
possible  the  peculiar  blending  of  traditions  which, 
as  I  have  said,  is  the  chief  mark  of  originality  in 
Mr.  Hearn's  essays.  But  in  the  next  step  the 
two  diverge  as  far  as  the  rising  sun  is  from  the 
setting.  To  Mr.  Spencer  and  all  the  spokesmen 
of  science  it  is  the  impermanent  sphere  of  phe- 
nomena that  is  alone  knowable,  whereas  the  per- 
manent Reality  hidden  from  the  eyes  is  the  great 
Unknowable.  To  the  Buddhist  on  the  contrary, 
all  impermanence  is  wrapt  in  illusion,  as  indeed 
the  very  meaning  of  the  word  would  seem  to 
imply,  whereas  the  permanent  Reality,  though 
inexpressible,  is  alone  knowable.  The  difference 
is  of  great  importance  when  we  come  to  consider 
the  effect  of  interpreting  Japanese  ideas  in  Occi- 
dental terms.  It  even  seems  that  Mr.  Hearn  him- 
self is  not  aware  of  the  gulf  set  between  these  two 
methods  of  viewing  existence,  and  that  conse- 
quently he  has  never  measured  the  full  originality 
of  this  realm  of  sensation  which  his  art  has  opened 
by  spanning  a  bridge  between  the  two.  In  the 
fusion  of  Mr.  Hearn's  thought  the  world  of  im- 
permanent phenomena  is  at  once  knowable  and 
unknowable:  it  is  the  reality  of  Western  cogni- 
tion, and  therefore  is  invested  with  an  intensity 
of  influence  and  fulness  of  meaning  impossible  to 
an  Oriental  writer  ;  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  the 
unreality  of  Eastern  philosophy,  and  hence  is  in- 
volved in  illusion  and  subtle  shadows  into  which 


60  SIIELBURNE   ESSAYS 

it  threatens  momentarily  to  melt  away.  It  is  a 
realm  of  half  reality,  this  phenomenal  world,  a 
realm  of  mingled  spirit  and  matter,  seeming  now 
to  tantalise  the  eyes  with  colours  of  unimaginable 
beauty  that  fade  away  when  we  gaze  on  them  too 
intently,  and  again  to  promise  the  Soul  that  one 
long-sought  word  which  shall  solve  the  riddle  of 
her  existence  in  this  land  of  exile.  It  is  a  new 
symbolism  that  troubles  while  it  illumines.  It 
leads  the  artist  to  dwell  on  the  weirder,  more  im- 
palpable phases  of  Japanese  literature,  and  to  lend 
to  these  subconscious  motives  a  force  of  realism 
which  they  could  never  possess  in  the  original. 
The  perception  of  impermanence  is  accompanied 
with  a  depth  of  yearning  regret  quite  beyond  the 
frailer  beauty  of  the  songs  of  the  East  which  could 
see  little  gravity  of  meaning  in  phenomena  dis- 
severed from  the  spirit,  and  equally  beyond  the 
songs  of  the  West  composed  before  science  had 
carried  the  law  of  material  mutability  into  the 
notion  of  personality.  From  this  union  with 
science  the  Oriental  belief  in  the  indwelling  of  the 
past  now  receives  a  vividness  of  present  actuality 
that  dissolves  the  Soul  into  ghostly  intimacy  with 
the  mystic  unexplored  background  of  life.  As  a 
consequence  of  this  new  sense  of  impermanence 
and  of  this  new  realism  lent  to  the  indwelling 
past,  all  the  primitive  emotions  of  the  heart  are 
translated  into  a  strange  language,  which,  when 
once  it  lays  hold  of  the  imagination,  carries  us 
into  a  region  of  dreams  akin  to  that  world  which 


LAFCADIO    I  [EARN  6 1 

our  psychologists  dimly  call  the  subliminal  or 
subconscious.  The  far-reaching  results  of  this 
psychology  on  literature  it  is  not  easy  to  foresee. 
Mr.  Hearn  has  nowhere  treated  systematically 
this  new  interpretation  of  human  emotions,  but 
by  bringing  together  scattered  passages  from  his 
essays  we  may  form  some  notion  of  its  scope  and 
efficacy. 

Beauty  itself,  which  forms  the  essence  of  Mr. 
Hearn 's  art  as  of  all  true  art,  receives  a  new 
content  from  this  union  of  the  East  and  the  West. 
So  standing  before  a  picture  of  nude  beauty  we 
might,  in  our  author's  words,  question  its  mean- 
ing. That  nudity  which  is  divine,  which  is  the 
abstract  of  beauty  absolute, — what  power,  we  ask, 
resides  within  it  or  within  the  beholder  that 
causes  this  shock  of  astonishment  and  delight, 
not  unmixed  with  melancholy  ?  The  longer  one 
looks,  the  more  the  wonder  grows,  since  there 
appears  no  line,  or  part  of  a  line,  whose  beauty 
does  not  surpass  all  memory  of  things  seen. 
Plato  explained  the  shock  of  beauty  as  being  the 
Soul's  sudden  half- remembrance  of  the  World  of 
Divine  Ideas  :  "  They  who  see  here  any  image  or 
resemblance  of  the  things  which  are  there  receive 
a  shock  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  are,  after  a  man- 
ner, taken  out  of  themselves."  The  positive  psy- 
chology of  Spencer  declares  in  our  own  day  that 
the  most  powerful  of  human  passions,  first  love, 
when  it  makes  its  appearance,  is  absolutely  ante- 
cedent  to  all  individual  experience.      Thus  do 


62  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

ancient  thought  and  modern — metaphysics  and 
science — accord  in  recognising  that  the  first  deep 
sensation  of  human  beauty  known  to  the  indi- 
vidual is  not  individual  at  all.  Must  not  the  same 
truth  hold  of  that  shock  which  supreme  art  gives  ? 
The  emotion  of  beauty,  like  all  our  emotions,  is 
certainty  the  inherited  product  of  unimaginably 
countless  experiences  in  an  immeasurable  past. 
In  every  aesthetic  sensation  is  the  stirring  of  tril- 
lions of  trillions  of  ghostly  memories  buried  in  the 
magical  soil  of  the  brain.  And  each  man  carries 
within  him  an  ideal  of  beauty  which  is  but  an 
infinite  composite  of  dead  perceptions  of  form, 
colour,  grace,  once  dear  to  look  upon.  It  is  dorm- 
ant, this  ideal, — potential  in  essence, — cannot  be 
evoked  at  will  before  the  imagination  ;  but  it 
may  light  up  electrically  at  any  perception  by  the 
living  outer  sense  of  some  vague  affinity.  Then 
is  felt  that  weird,  sad,  delicious  thrill,  which  ac- 
companies the  sudden  backward-flowing  of  the 
tides  of  life  and  time. 

So,  again,  to  follow  Mr.  Hearn,  it  is  easy  to  in- 
fer how  this  perception  of  the  indwelling  of  the 
past  gives  a  wonderful  significance  to  the  thral- 
dom of  love, — to  first  love  most  of  all,  when  the 
shock  of  emotion  comes  untroubled  by  worldly 
calculations  of  the  present.  What  is  the  glamour, 
we  ask  with  our  author,  that  blinds  the  lover  in 
its  sweet  bewildering  light  when  first  he  meets  the 
woman  of  his  involuntary  choice?  Whose  the 
witchcraft  ?     Is  it  any  power  in  the  living  idol  ? 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  63 

Rather  it  is  the  power  of  the  dead  within  the 
idolater.  The  dead  cast  the  spell.  Theirs  the 
shock  in  the  lover's  heart ;  theirs  the  electric 
shiver  that  tingled  through  his  veins  at  the  first 
touch  of  one  girl's  hand.  We  look  into  the  eyes 
of  love  and  it  is  as  though,  through  some  intense 
and  sudden  stimulation  of  vital  being,  we  had 
obtained  —  for  one  supercelestial  moment  —  the 
glimpse  of  a  reality  never  before  imagined,  and 
never  again  to  be  revealed.  There  is,  indeed,  an 
illusion.  We  seem  to  view  the  divine;  but  this 
divine  itself,  whereby  we  are  dazzled  and  duped, 
is  a  ghost.  Our  mortal  sight  pierces  beyond  the 
surface  of  the  present  into  profundities  of  myriads 
of  years, — pierces  beyond  the  mask  of  life  into  the 
enormous  night  of  death.  For  a  moment  we  are 
made  aware  of  a  beauty  and  a  mystery  and  a 
depth  unutterable  :  then  the  Veil  falls  again  for- 
ever. The  splendour  of  the  eyes  that  we  worship 
belongs  to  them  only  as  brightness  to  the  morning 
star.  It  is  a  reflex  from  beyond  the  shadow  of 
the  Now, — a  ghost-light  of  vanished  suns.  Un- 
knowingly within  that  maiden-gaze  we  meet  the 
gaze  of  eyes  more  countless  than  the  hosts  of 
heaven, — eyes  otherwhere  passed  into  darkness 
and  dust. 

And  if  we  turn  to  another  and  purer  form  of 
love,  it  is  the  same  force  we  behold.  So  long  as 
we  supposed  the  woman  soul  one  in  itself, — a 
something  specially  created  to  fit  one  particular 
physical  being, — the  beauty  and  the  wonder  of 


64  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

mother-love  could  never  be  fully  revealed  to  us. 
But  with  deeper  knowledge  we  must  perceive  that 
the  inherited  love  of  numberless  millions  of  dead 
mothers  has  been  treasured  up  in  one  life  ; — that 
only  thus  can  be  interpreted  the  infinite  sweetness 
of  the  speech  which  the  infant  hears, — the  infinite 
tenderness  of  the  look  of  caress  which  meets  its 
gaze. 

So  too  when  we  listen  to  the  harmonies  of  in- 
strumental music  or  the  melody  of  the  human 
voice,  there  arises  a  strange  emotion  within  us 
which  seems  to  magnify  us  out  of  ourselves  into 
some  expanse  of  illimitable  experiences,  to  lift  us 
above  the  present  cares  of  our  petty  life  into  some 
vast  concern — so  vast  that  the  soul  is  lost  between 
the  wonderings  of  divine  hope  and  divine  fear. 
Great  music  is  a  psychical  storm,  agitating  to 
fathomless  depths  the  mystery  of  the  past  within 
us.  Or  we  might  say  that  it  is  a  prodigious  in- 
cantation. There  are  tones  that  call  up  all  ghosts 
of  youth  and  joy  and  tenderness  ; — there  are  tones 
that  evoke  all  phantom  pain  of  perished  passion  ; 
— there  are  tones  that  resurrect  all  dead  sensations 
of  majesty  and  might  and  glory, —  all  expired 
exultations, — all  forgotten  magnanimities.  Well 
may  the  influence  of  music  seem  inexplicable  to 
the  man  who  idly  dreams  that  his  life  began  less 
than  a  hundred  years  ago  !  He  who  has  been 
initiated  into  the  truth  knows  that  to  every  ripple 
of  melody,  to  every  billow  of  harmony,  there  an- 
swers within  him,  out  of  the  Sea  of  Death  and 


LAFCADIO    HEARN  65 

Birth,  some  eddying  immeasurable  of  ancient 
pleasure  and  pain. 

Genius  itself,  the  master  of  music  and  poetry 
and  all  art  that  enlarges  mortal  life,  genius  itself 
is  nothing  other  than  the  reverberation  of  this 
enormous  past  on  the  sounding  board  of  some 
human  intelligence,  so  finely  wrought  as  to  send 
forth  in  purity  the  echoed  tones  which  from  a 
grosser  soul  come  forth  deadened  and  confused  by 
the  clashing  of  the  man's  individual  impulses. 

Is  it  not  proper  to  say,  after  reading  such  pass- 
ages as  these,  that  Mr.  Hearn  has  introduced  a 
new  element  of  psychology  into  literature  ?  We 
are  indeed  living  in  the  past,  we  who  foolishly  cry 
out  that  the  past  is  dead.  In  one  remarkable 
study  of  the  emotions  awakened  by  the  baying  of 
a  gaunt  white  hound,  Mr.  Hearn  shows  how  even 
the  very  beasts  whom  we  despise  as  unreasoning 
and  unremembering  are  filled  with  an  inarticulate 
sense  of  this  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time, 
whose  shadow  falls  on  their  sensitive  souls  with 
the  chill  of  a  vague  dread, — dread,  I  say,  for  it 
must  begin  to  be  evident  that  this  new  psychol- 
ogy is  fraught  with  meanings  that  may  well 
trouble  and  awe  the  student.  In  the  ghostly 
residuum  of  these  meditations  we  may  perceive 
a  vision  dimly  foreshadowing  itself  which  man- 
kind for  centuries,  nay  for  thousands  of  years,  has 
striven  half  unwittingly  to  keep  veiled.  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  foreboding  of 
this  dreaded  disclosure  may  account  for  many 

VOL.  II.— 5. 


66  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

things  in  the  obscure  history  of  the  race.  By 
reason  of  this  terror  the  savage  trembled  before 
the  magician  who  seemed  to  have  penetrated  the 
mysteries  of  nature  about  him.  Among  the  free- 
hearted Greeks  it  showed  itself  in  many  ways, 
even  in  persecutions  and  deaths,  as  later  among 
the  Christians.  It  expressed  itself  mythologically 
in  the  haunting  legend  of  Prometheus,  who,  by 
stealing  the  celestial  fire  (a  symbol  of  forbidden 
prying  into  natural  laws),  brought  on  himself  tor- 
ment and  chains  and  on  mankind  a  life  of  brutal 
labour. 

But  more  particularly  in  the  Christian  world 
this  formless  terror  has  taken  to  itself  a  body  and 
a  name  ;  it  is  the  heart  of  the  inquisition,  which 
has  always  followed  with  excommunications  and 
tortures  the  unveiling  of  the  recondite  powers  of 
nature.  It  has  thus  made  of  itself  a  potent  factor 
of  civilisation — some  would  say  against  civilisa- 
tion, yet  he  is  a  very  bold  man  or  a  very  ignorant 
man  who  would  brush  away  this  long  protest  of 
religion  against  scientific  discoveries  as  the  mere 
vapourings  of  superstition.  If  we  examine  this 
bitter  warfare  between  science  and  revelation,  we 
shall  find  the  Church  actuated  throughout  by 
one  ever-present,  obscure  dread,  and  when  the 
source  of  this  dread  is  made  clear  to  us  we  shall 
be  slow  to  condemn  her  conduct.  We  shall  at 
least  have  sympathy  with  her  in  the  struggle,  for 
if  she  has  been  a  persecutor,  she  has  also  been  the 
champion  of  a  losing  cause. 


LAFCADIO   HEARN  67 

At  the  first,  indeed,  she  was  victorious.  In  the 
conflict  with  what  remained  of  Greek  philosophy 
and  science  the  prophets  of  the  new  revelation 
were  easily  victors.  "  Ignorance  is  the  mother 
of  devotion,"  was  the  motto  of  Gregory,  and 
ignorance  won  the  day.  We  love  to  think  of  the 
bright  naturalism  of  antiquity  as  suffering  martyr- 
dom with  Hypatia,  philosopher  and  mathema- 
tician,— 

Hypatia,  fair  embodiment 

Of  learning's  great  delight. 

And  the  picture  of  her  naked  body  torn  to  pieces 
by  oyster  shells  in  the  hands  of  a  bigoted  mob  is 
a  true  emblem  of  the  dismemberment  of  the  old 
nature-worship.  Man  was  no  longer  to  be  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  world  ;  he  was  set  apart  and 
raised  above  it. 

But  the  Church  did  not  fare  so  well  in  the  cease- 
less conflict  with  learning,  when,  at  the  time  of 
the  Renaissance,  she  laid  violent  hands  on  the 
followers  of  Copernicus.  It  may  seem  to  us  now 
a  futile  crime  that  Giordano  Bruno  should  have 
been  burned  at  the  stake  for  teaching  the  infinity 
of  space  and  the  revolution  of  the  earth  about  the 
sun,  and  that  Galileo  should  have  languished  in 
prison  for  the  same  cause.  But  at  bottom  the 
question  was  one  of  vital  importance  to  religion  ; 
and  Bruno  may  have  been  right  in  saying  that 
the  sentence  was  pronounced  against  him  with 
greater   fear   than   he   received   it.     Despite  the 


68  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

narrow  bigotry  displayed,  it  was  a  sublime  contest 
for  the  integrity  of  the  human  soul, —  for  who 
would  believe  that  the  divine  drama  of  redemption 
was  wrought  out  for  a  race  of  puny  creatures  in- 
habiting a  mere  atom  in  the  illimitable  expanse  of 
space  ?  Copernicus  and  his  followers  disabused 
us  of  the  old  belief  that  the  universe  revolved 
about  the  home  of  man.  Henceforth  the  history 
of  the  earth  was  the  insignificant  story  of  one  of  the 
least  of  a  countless  multitude  of  worlds.  The  su- 
premacy and  lordship  of  man  in  creation  were  no 
longer  conceivable,  and  in  the  triumph  of  science 
our  personal  pride  received  a  blow  from  which  it 
has  never  fully  recovered. 

Custom  and  time,  however,  did  in  a  way  heal 
the  wound,  and  things  went  well  until  the  forces 
of  science  rallied  once  again  under  the  banner  of 
evolution.  Volumes  have  been  written  to  prove 
that  the  new  belief  only  adds  to  the  dignity  of 
man,  and  Darwin  himself  professed  never  to 
understand  the  widespread  opposition  to  his 
theory.  But  the  new  terror  that  aroused  theo- 
logical hostility  was  as  firmly  grounded  as  it  was 
against  the  invasion  of  Copernicus  centuries  be- 
fore. There  is  no  place  for  Providence  or  for  the 
divine  prerogatives  of  the  human  soul  in  the  law 
of  evolution.  We  are  made  a  brother  to  the  brute 
and  akin  to  unclean  things  that  crawl  in  the  dust. 
Yet  this  quarrel  also  was  adjusted  after  a  fashion, 
as  the  quarrels  before  it  had  been  composed. 
What  though  ignorance  is  necessary  to  obscure 


LAFCADIO   HEARN  69 

our  kinship  with  living  nature,  as  Pope  Gregory 
declared  ;  what  though  our  home  is  but  a  point  in 
space  ;  what  though  we  are  inheritors  of  a  past  of 
brutal  degradation  ; — still  our  consciousness  has 
no  recking  of  these  things,  and  dwells  serene  in 
its  assumption  of  divine  supremacy  and  isolation. 
But  now  at  the  last  we  are  shocked  out  of  our 
security.  We  are  made  conscious  of  the  shame 
of  the  hidden  past,  and  the  ancient  haunting 
terror  is  revealed  in  all  its  hideous  nakedness. 
Have  you  ever  by  chance  strayed  through  a 
museum  where  the  relics  of  old-world  life  are 
gathered  together, — filthy  amphibians  armed  with 
impenetrable  scales,  grotesque  serpents  eight 
fathoms  long  that  churned  the  seas,  huge  reptiles 
that  beat  the  air  with  wings  of  nightmare 
breadth  ?  The  imagination  recoils  from  picturing 
what  the  world  must  have  been  when  Nature  ex- 
hausted herself  to  fashion  these  abhorrent  mon- 
strosities. We  have  burrowed  the  soil  and 
brought  into  the  light  of  day  these  reluctant 
hidden  records  of  bestial  growths.  Consider  for 
a  moment  what  it  would  mean  if  some  new  geo- 
logy should  lay  bare  the  covered  strata  of  memory 
in  our  own  brain  corresponding  to  these  records 
of  the  earth  ;  for  there  is  nothing  lost,  and  in 
some  mysterious  way  the  memories  of  all  that  ob- 
scure past  are  stored  up  within  us.  If  evolution 
be  true,  we  are  the  inheritors  in  our  soul  of  the 
experience  and  life  of  those  innumerable  genera- 
tions whose  material  forms  lie  moulded  in  the 


JO  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

bed-rock  of  earth.  Consider  the  horror  of  behold- 
ing in  our  own  consciousness  the  remembrance  of 
such  fears  and  frenzies,  such  cruel  passions  and 
wallowing  desires  as  would  correspond  to  those 
gigantic  and  abortive  relics  of  antiquity.  Would 
not  the  world  in  its  shame  cry  out  for  some 
Lethean  draught  of  sleep,  though  it  were  as  pro- 
found as  the  oblivion  of  Nirvana  ?  This  is  the 
terror,  then,  that  from  the  beginning  has  beset 
the  upholders  of  religion,  and  has  caused  them 
to  attack  the  revelations  of  natural  science ;  for 
what  faith  or  beauty  of  holiness  can  abide  after 
such  an  uncovering  ?  None,  unless  to  obtain 
spiritual  grace  the  whole  memory  and  personality 
of  a  man  be  blotted  out,  and  the  spirit  be  severed 
from  the  experiences  of  the  body  by  an  impassable 
gulf.  And  I  think  the  shadow  of  this  dread  is 
typified  in  the  curse  which  Noah  laid  upon  his 
son  Ham. 

The  final  outcome  of  this  dread  in  all  its  naked- 
ness we  see  foreshadowed  in  these  fantasies  and 
essays  of  an  author,  who,  as  I  have  attempted  to 
show,  has  brought  together  into  indissoluble  union 
our  Western  theory  of  Darwin  and  that  strange 
doctrine  of  metempsychosis  which  was  carried  to 
Japan  with  Buddhism  and  is  so  curiously  engrafted 
on  the  laughing  fancies  of  the  people  of  the  Mi- 
kado. To  understand  the  tremendous  realism  of 
horror  and  gloom  connected  with  this  doctrine  of 
everlasting  birth  and  death,  and  re-birth,  one 
must  go  to  the  burning  valley  of  the  Gauges, 


LAFCADIO   HEARN  7 1 

where  the  conception  first  laid  hold  of  the  human 
mind.  But  overpowering  as  this  notion  of  end- 
less unrest  may  be,  a  new  shadow  would  seem  to 
be  added  to  it  by  contact  with  the  scientific  hypo- 
thesis of  evolution  which  has  been  developed  in 
the  Occident.  Evolution  is  a  theory,  drawn  from 
the  observation  of  outer  phenomena,  that  man 
is  the  last  product  of  myriads  of  generations  of  life 
reaching  back  into  the  past ;  but  evolution  has 
foreborne  to  make  any  appeal  to  the  inner  con- 
sciousness of  the  human  soul.  Metempsychosis, 
on  the  contrary,  is  a  half  mystical  theory  evolved 
out  of  the  consciousness  of  the  soul,  which  in  a 
dim  way  seems  to  carry  remembrance  of  illimita- 
ble existence  before  its  present  birth.  But  this 
symbolic  faith  of  the  Orient  has  never  sought  con- 
firmation in  scientific  study  of  the  outer  world. 
Now  comes  the  blending  of  these  two  theories,  and 
the  result  is  a  laying  bare  of  those  hideous  realities 
(pray  heaven  they  prove  pseudo-realities  in  the 
end)  that  mankind  has  instinctively  shunned  and 
denounced. 

It  is  because  I  see  in  Mr.  Hearn's  sketches  and 
translations  a  suggestion  of  the  incalculable  in- 
fluences that  may  spring  from  this  union  of  the 
East  and  the  West,  that  I  have  treated  them  with 
a  seriousness  that  will  seem  to  many  readers 
greater  than  they  deserve.  The  skeptical  I  would 
refer,  in  conclusion,  to  that  little  essay  on  the 
Nightmare- Touch,  which  attempts  to  account  for 
the   shuddering   fear    of   seizure   that   so   often 


72  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

troubles  our  dreams,  and  to  associate  that  fear 
with  the  widespread  superstitious  dread  of  being 
touched  by  a  ghost.  The  closing  words  of  the 
essay  have  the  sinister  beauty  and  acrid  odour  of 
the  flowers  in  some  Rappacciui's  garden  : 

Furthermore,  through  all  the  course  of  evolution, 
heredity  would  have  been  accumulating  the  experience 
of  such  feeling.  Under  those  forms  of  imaginative  pain 
evolved  through  reaction  of  religious  beliefs,  there  would 
persist  some  dim  survival  of  savage  primitive  fears,  and 
again,  under  this,  a  dimmer,  but  incomparably  deeper, 
substratum  of  ancient  animal-terrors.  In  the  dreams  of 
the  modern  child  all  tbese  latencies  might  quicken — one 
below  another — unfathomably — with  the  coming  and  tbe 
growing  of  nightmare. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  phantasms  of  any  par- 
ticular nightmare  have  a  history  older  than  the  brain  in 
which  they  move.  But  the  shock  of  the  touch  would 
seem  to  indicate  some  point  of  dream-contact  with  the 
total  race-experience  of  shadowy  seizure.  It  may  be  that 
profundities  of  Self — abysses  never  reached  by  any  ray 
from  the  life  of  sun — are  strangely  stirred  in  slumber,  and 
that  out  of  their  blackness  immediately  responds  a  shud- 
dering of  memory,  measureless  even  by  millions  of  years. 


THE  FIRST  COMPLETE  EDITION  OF 
HAZLITT 

If  one  should  turn  to  William  Hazlitt  expecting 
to  find  critical  essays  like  those  we  connect  with 
writers  of  more  recent  days,  he  would  be  sadly 
disappointed.  There  is  in  Hazlitt's  work  little — 
were  it  not  for  a  few  exceptional  passages  that 
occur  to  memory,  I  should  say  nothing — of  that 
looking  before  and  after,  that  linking  of  literary 
movements  with  the  great  currents  of  human 
activity,  which  has  become  a  part  of  criticism 
along  with  the  growth  of  the  historical  method. 
He  is  not  concerned  with  the  searching  out  of 
larger  cause  and  effect,  but  is  intensely  occupied 
with  the  individual  man,  and  studies  to  deduce 
the  peculiar  style  of  each  writer  from  his  character 
and  temperament.  Nor  can  we  hope  to  find  in 
him — I  say  "hope"  from  the  common  point  of 
view  to-day — any  trace  of  that  scientific  method 
which  would  analyse  the  products  of  the  human 
brain  as  a  chemist  deals  with  "  vitriol  and  sugar." 
He  wrote  before  these  things  were  known.  He 
was,  quite  as  much  as  Byron  or  Wordsworth,  a 
child  of  the  revolution,  and  his  blood  tingled  with 
the  new  romanticism.  Yet  even  here  certain  dis- 
73 


74  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

tinctions  must  be  drawn.  When  we  speak  to-day 
of  the  romantic  critic,  we  think  of  one  who  has 
joined  the  sensibility  and  fluency  of  the  revolu- 
tionary temperament  to  the  sympathies  of  the  later 
historic  method,  and  has  taught  his  soul  to  trans- 
form itself  cunningly  into  the  various  types  that 
it  chooses  to  study.  We  associate  the  word  with 
that  kind  of  fluctuating  egotism  which  makes  of 
the  critic  one  "  qui  raconte  les  aventures  de  son 
ame  au  milieu  des  chefs-d'oeuvre."  Hazlitt  was 
an  egotist  in  all  conscience,  but  of  this  particular 
form  of  the  disease  we  can  hardly  hold  him  guilty. 
His  was  one  of  the  rarest,  yet  most  characteristic, 
traits  of  the  revolutionary  spirit — gusto  he  himself 
would  call  it.  The  word,  now  unfortunately  fall- 
ing into  desuetude,  connotes  the  power  of  intense 
enjoyment  based  on  understanding,  and  is  so 
common  in  his  essays  that  Henley  '  took  it  as  the 
keynote  of  all  his  work.  But  a  still  stronger  term 
than  gusto  is  needed,  I  think,  to  describe  the 
swift  qualities  of  Hazlitt' s  mind  ;  he  is  the  writer, 
to  a  supreme  degree,  of  passion. 

What  he  loved — the  few  great  books,  the  one 
great  man,  the  chosen  scenes  of  nature,  his  youth- 
ful scheme  of  philosophy  —  he  laid  to  his  heart 
with  passionate  zest  and  clung  to  with  desperate 
tenacity  ;  what  was  hateful  to  him  he  spurned 
with  equal  vehemence.     Byron  speaks  of  his  own 

1  In  the  Introduction  to  Hazlitt's  Complete  Works,  in 
12  vols.,  published  by  McClure,  Phillips,  &  Co.,  New 
York.     1904. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  7$ 

mind  as  having  the  motion  of  a  tiger ;  if  he 
missed  his  leap  there  was  no  retrieving  the  error. 
That  is  true  of  Byron,  who  almost  alone  shares 
with  Hazlitt  the  untamed  passion  of  the  revolu- 
tionary spirit ;  but  it  is  still  more  true  of  Hazlitt, 
and,  apart  from  the  stress  of  journalism,  accounts 
for  the  singular  unevenness  of  his  work.  There 
is  something  even  in  the  keen  sinewy  language 
of  Hazlitt  that  suggests  the  tiger's  spring.  His 
sentences  succeed  one  another  like  the  rapid 
bounds  of  such  an  animal,  and  at  the  last  comes 
one  straight  unerring  leap  and  the  prey  is  fixed, 
bleeding,  you  might  almost  say,  in  his  grasp. 
There  is  nothing  just  like  it  among  English 
authors.  Genuine  passion,  indeed,  if  one  con- 
siders it,  is  a  rare,  almost  the  rarest,  trait  in 
literature.  Certainly  in  English  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  find  another  author  whose  work  is  so 
dominated  by  this  quality  as  Hazlitt's.  It  gives 
the  tone  to  his  critical  writing  ;  it  explains  the 
keenness  and  the  limitations  of  his  psychological 
insight ;  it  causes  the  innumerable  contradictions 
that  occur  in  his  views  ;  it  gives  rapidity  to  his 
style  ;  it  imparts  a  peculiar  zest  to  his  very  man- 
ner of  quoting  ;  it  lends  exhilarating  interest  to 
his  pages,  yet  in  the  long  run,  if  we  read  him  too 
continuously,  it  wearies  us  a  little,  for  not  many 
of  us  are  keyed  up  to  his  high  pitch.  We  go  to 
him  for  superb  rhetoric,  for  emotions  in  literary 
experience  that  stir  the  languid  blood,  but  we 
hardly  look  to  him  for  judgment.     There  is  much 


?6  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

in  English  that  assumes  the  passionate  tone ; 
place  it  beside  Hazlitt  and  for  the  most  part  it 
appears  tame  or  false. 

Something  of  this  passion  we  get  in  the  very- 
life  of  the  man.  It  may  be  that  we  lend  to  our 
image  of  him  the  colours  his  rhetoric  assumes 
whenever  he  turns  aside  from  some  critical  or 
psychological  disquisition  to  speak,  as  he  so  often 
does,  of  his  own  wayward  career.  Certain  it  is 
that  in  our  fancy  he  moves  among  the  group  of  men 
that  we  gather  about  his  name  and  Lamb's  (and 
how  well  we  know  them,  and  which  of  our  living 
friends  stands  so  clearly  revealed  to  us, — the  gentle 
Saint  Charles,  the  cold,  mechanical  Godwin,  the 
impulsive,  unsubstantial  Hunt,  Wordsworth  wrapt 
in  the  stiff  robes  of  his  priestcraft,  Southey  of  the 
bustling,  shallow,  loyal  mind,  Coleridge  the  cloud- 
compeller  !) — he  moves  among  them  like  some 
creature  of  burning  skies  and  flaming  horizons 
amid  the  cold  children  of  the  mists.  His  friend- 
ships were  swift,  and  his  hatreds — how  they  stir  in 
memory,  still  throbbing  with  venom  !  The  very 
houses  he  has  occupied  and  the  scenes  he  has 
visited  become  vitalised  with  the  prodigious  life 
of  the  man.  Memorable  as  is  the  house  at  No. 
19  York  Street  for  the  years  during  which  it  was 
Milton's  home,  it  is  almost  more  interesting  still 
for  its  association  with  Hazlitt.  Here  for  a  time 
he  lived  in  his  irregular  way,  going  to  bed  when 
others  were  rising,  getting  up  at  one  or  two  o'clock 
in  the  day,  lingering  for  hours,  when  not  pressed 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  J? 

by  work,  over  innumerable  cups  of  tea  which  he 
brewed  to  an  extraordinary  strength  in  place  of 
forbidden  intoxicants,  sitting  "  silent,  motionless, 
and  self-absorbed,  as  a  Turk  over  his  opium 
pouch."  From  his  windows  he  could  look  down 
into  the  garden  of  that  monumental  maker  of  con- 
stitutions, Jeremy  Bentham  (his  landlord,  by  the 
way),  whose  heartless,  frigid  zeal  for  reform  seems 
to  have  sent  a  shudder  of  aversion  through  Haz- 
litt's  whole  frame.  His  picture  of  Bentham  throws 
light  on  his  own  character  as  being  in  every  re- 
spect its  opposite.  ' '  There  you  may  see  the  lively 
old  man,"  he  writes,  "  his  mind  still  buoyant  with 
thought  and  with  the  prospect  of  the  futurity,  in 
eager  conversation  with  some  Opposition  member, 
some  expatriated  patriot,  or  transatlantic  adven- 
turer, urging  the  extinction  of  close  boroughs,  or 
planning  a  code  of  laws  for  some  '  lone  island  in 
the  watery  waste,'  his  walk  almost  amounting  to 
a  run,  his  tongue  keeping  pace  with  it  in  shrill, 
cluttering  accents,  negligent  of  his  person,  his 
dress,  and  his  manner,  intent  only  on  his  grand 
theme  of  utility  —  or  pausing,  perhaps,  for  want 
of  breath  and  with  lack-lustre  eye,"  etc. —  no 
wonder  Hazlitt's  friends  or  enemies  trembled 
when  they  heard  he  was  to  write  about  them  ! 
One  imagines  that  he  was  conscious  while  por- 
traying Bentham  of  his  own  contrasted  qualities 
—  his  loose,  shambling  walk,  his  slow,  inter- 
rupted speech,  except  when  passion  made  him 
eloquent,  his  dark  burning  eyes,  his  contempt 


78  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

for  the  nerveless,  cold-blooded  reformers  of  the 
day. 

And  if  his  London  home — one  of  them  at  least, 
for  much  of  life  he  passed  in  lodging  houses  of  a 
nondescript  character — stands  out  thus  vivid  in 
memory,  no  less  do  Wem  and  Winterslow,  his 
country  residences,  form  an  integral  part  of  the 
impression  made  upon  us  by  his  writings.  At 
Wem  he  lived  with  his  father,  a  Unitarian  min- 
ister, from  his  tenth  to  his  twenty-second  year,  a 
sluggish,  brooding  period  during  which  his  powers 
seemed  to  have  lain  in  some  strange  abeyance. 
Yet  the  vividness  of  his  allusions  to  Wem  in  after 
times  shows  that  even  then  he  must  have  been 
gathering  up  those  personal  experiences  that  lend 
so  much  individuality  to  his  most  abstract  essays. 
And  it  was  at  Wem  that  the  impulse  came  which 
made  the  young  man's  ambition  leap  up  within 
his  breast  like  a  smouldering  coal  beneath  a  sud- 
den breeze.  Coleridge  came  to  preach  at  Shrews- 
bury, only  ten  miles  away,  and  thither  Hazlitt, 
then  nearly  twenty  years  old,  walked  to  hear  the 
divine  words  that  were  to  be  to  him  "  far  above 
singing."  Better  than  that ;  Coleridge  visited 
Hazlitt' s  father,  and  the  meeting  of  the  torpid 
youth  with  that  soaring  genius  Hazlitt  described 
years  afterward  in  one  of  those  essays  that  deal 
with  his  memorable  first  experiences: 

On  Tuesday  following  the  half-inspired  speaker  came. 
I  was  called  down  into  the  room  where  he  was,  and  went, 
half  hoping,  half  afraid.     He  received  me  very  graciously, 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  79 

and  I  listened  for  a  long  time  without  uttering  a  word.  I 
did  not  suffer  in  bis  opinion  by  my  silence.  "  For  those 
two  hours,"  he  afterwards  was  pleased  to  say,  "he  was 
conversing  with  William  Hazlitt's  forehead."  His  ap- 
pearance was  different  from  what  I  had  anticipated  from 
seeing  him  before.  At  a  distance,  and  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  chapel,  there  was  to  me  a  strange  wildness  in  his 
aspect,  a  dusky  obscurity,  and  I  thought  him  pitted  with 
the  smallpox.  His  complexion  was  at  that  time  clear, 
and  even  bright — 

"  As  are  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen." 

His  forehead  was  high,  light,  as  if  built  of  ivory,  with 
large  projecting  eyebrows;  and  his  eyes  rolling  beneath 
them,  like  a  sea  with  darkened  lustre.  "  A  certain  tender 
bloom  his  face  o'erspread,"  a  purple  tinge  as  we  see  it  in 
the  pale,  thoughtful  complexions  of  the  Spanish  portrait- 
painters,  Murillo  and  Velasquez.  His  mouth  was  gross, 
voluptuous,  open,  eloquent;  his  chin  good-humoured 
and  round ;  but  his  nose,  the  rudder  of  the  face,  the  in- 
dex of  the  will,  was  small,  feeble,  nothing — like  what  he 
was.  It  might  seem  that  the  genius  of  his  face  as  from  a 
height  surveyed  and  projected  him  (with  sufficient  ca- 
pacity and  huge  aspiration)  into  the  world  unknown  of 
thought  and  imagination,  with  nothing  to  support  or 
guide  his  veering  purpose,  as  if  Columbus  had  launched 
his  adventurous  course  for  the  New  World  in  a  scallop, 
without  oars  or  compass. 

I  may  be  pardoned  for  quoting  Hazlitt  at  this 
length,  for  in  no  other  way,  as  his  latest  biog- 
rapher has  confessed,  can  the  style  and  method 
of  the  man  be  set  forth.  The  virtue  of  his  work 
lies  not  in  his  analytic  criticism,  which  can  be 
studied  apart  from  his  own  language,  but  in  the 


80  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

fusion  of  passion  and  insight ;  and  in  this  portrait 
of  Coleridge,  which  has  passed  into  the  universal 
heritage  of  English  letters,  we  may  see  blended 
together  that  perception  of  physical  traits,  which 
was  heightened  no  doubt  by  Hazlitt's  training  as 
a  painter,  and  that  power  of  seizing  the  psycho- 
logical peculiarities  of  a  man  and  using  them  to 
explain  the  character  of  his  writing.  Still  more 
explicitly  in  another  passage  he  develops  the  na- 
ture of  Johnson's  style  by  allusion  to  the  dictator's 
physical  and  moral  inertia  ;  as  elsewhere,  he  finds 
in  Cowper's  nervousness  the  source  of  his  literary 
method,  and  makes  of  Dante  the  personification 
of  blind  will. 

When  Coleridge  departed  from  Wem  he  left 
with  the  youth  whose  forehead  he  had  so  much 
admired  an  invitation  to  visit  him  at  Nether 
Stowey,  where  also  Wordsworth  was  to  be  seen. 
Hazlitt  walked  with  him  six  miles  on  the  road 
to  Shrewsbury,  drinking  in  reverently  the  poet's 
wise  discourse.  "On  my  way  back,"  he  wrote, 
"  I  had  a  sound  in  my  ears  —  it  was  the  voice  of 
Fancy  ;  I  had  a  light  before  me — it  was  the  face 
of  Poetry.  The  one  still  lingers  there,  the  other 
has  not  quitted  my  side!  "  And  we  who  read  the 
story  of  his  glorious,  passionate  enthusiasm  hear 
as  it  were  a  distant  echo  of  that  sound,  and  catch 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  that  golden  light,  and  are 
heartened  in  our  obscure  walk  through  a  world 
where  few  of  us  meet  such  poets  to  beguile  us  into 
forgetfulness.     Truly  it  might  be  said  in  those 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  8l 

days,  ov  yap  r  ayvdoTSS  Oeol  aWijXmffi  7ti\ov- 
raij  —  not  unknown  does  one  god  meet  with 
another. 

All  this  happened  at  Wera,  but  not  less  famous 
is  Winterslow,  where  Hazlitt  went  with  his  wife, 
and  where  in  later  years,  embittered  by  many  dis- 
appointments, he  retired  to  dream  over  a  life 
which  had  been  to  him  "  a  tissue  of  passion  " — 

Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy  Gods,  what  dreams! 

To  this  spot,  where  the  happiest  years  of  his 
young  manhood  were  spent,  he  retired  as  to  a 
sheltered  place  of  refuge — "of  all  that  dream- 
world nothing  left  but  pain."  There  is  no  more 
striking  artifice  in  any  of  our  essayists  than  the 
way  in  which  he  breaks  suddenly  into  some 
critical  discourse  to  describe  the  scenes  about  him 
at  his  beloved  Winterslow,  whether  from  the 
open  window  he  beholds  the  world  freshened  by 
a  recent  shower,  or  descants  on  a  country  lass 
picking  up  stones,  or  moralises  on  a  spider  crawl- 
ing along  the  matted  floor  of  his  room.  Here,  as 
he  thought,  his  very  language  was  apt  to  be  "  re- 
dundant and  excursive,"  although  at  other  times 
it  might  be  "  cramped,  dry,  abrupt."  Or,  again, 
his  fancy  took  a  wider  range,  as  in  his  Farewell 
to  Essay  Writing  : 

We  walk  through  life,  as  through  a  narrow  path,  with 

a  thin  curtain  drawn  around  it ;  behind  are  ranged  rich 

portraits,  airy  harps  are  strung — yet  we  will  not  stretch 
vol.  n.— 6. 


82  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

forth  our  hands  and  lift  aside  the  veil,  to  catch  glimpses 
of  the  one,  or  sweep  the  chords  of  the  other.  As  in  a 
theatre,  when  the  old-fashioned  green  curtain  drew  up, 
groups  of  figures,  fantastic  dresses,  laughing  faces,  rich 
banquets,  stately  columns,  gleaming  vistas  appeared  be- 
yond ;  so  we  have  only  at  any  time  to  "  peep  through  the 
blanket  of  the  past,"  to  possess  ourselves  at  once  of  all 
that  has  regaled  our  senses,  that  is  stored  up  in  our 
memory,  that  has  struck  our  fancy,  that  has  pierced  our 
hearts — yet  to  all  this  we  are  indifferent,  insensible,  and 
seem  intent  only  on  the  present  vexation,  the  future  dis- 
appointment. ...  I  can  easily,  by  stooping  over  the 
long-spreut  grass  and  clay-cold  clods,  recall  the  tufts 
of  primroses,  or  purple  hyacinths,  that  formerly  grew  on 
the  same  spot,  and  cover  the  bushes  with  leaves  and  sing- 
ing birds,  as  they  were  eighteen  summers  ago ;  or  pro- 
longing my  walk  and  hearing  the  sighing  gale  rustle 
through  a  tall,  straight  wood  at  the  end  of  it,  can  fancy 
that  I  distinguish  the  cry  of  hounds,  and  the  fatal  group 
issuing  from  it,  as  in  the  tale  of  Theodore  and  Honoria. 
A  moaning  gust  of  wind  aids  the  belief ;  I  look  once  more 
to  see  whether  the  trees  before  me  answer  to  the  idea  of 
the  horror-stricken  grove,  and  an  air-built  city  towers 
over  their  grey  tops. 

"  Of  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands, 
The  chief  and  most  renown'd  Ravenna  stands." 

I  return  home  resolved  to  read  the  entire  poem  through, 
and,  after  dinner,  drawing  my  chair  to  the  fire,  and  hold- 
ing a  small  print  close  to  my  eyes,  launch  into  the  full 
tide  of  Dryden's  couplets  (a  stream  of  sound),  comparing 
his  didactic  and  descriptive  pomp  with  the  simpler  pathos 
and  picturesque  truth  of  Boccaccio's  story. 

A  cynic  might  point  a  moral  from  the  fact  that 
the  only  events  of  Hazlitt's  life  which  were  utterly 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  83 

free  from  the  intrusion  of  passion  were  his  two 
ventures  into  matrimony.  His  first  marriage,  to 
Sarah  Stoddart,  was  to  all  appearances  purely  an 
affair  of  convenience  arranged,  or  at  least  fostered, 
by  Mary  Lamb.  That  the  bride  had  an  income 
of  £120  from  cottages  at  Wiuterslow  seems  to 
have  been  her  chief  attraction  for  the  eccentric 
wooer.  Later  on  Hazlitt,  to  suit  his  pleasure, 
allowed  her  to  obtain  a  divorce.  A  second  mar- 
riage, with  a  widow,  Mrs.  Bridgewater,  contained 
an  element  of  almost  comical  indifference  on  both 
sides,  and  the  two  soon  separated  to  their  mutual 
advantage.  But  from  these  experiments  in  matri- 
mony it  should  not  be  argued  that  Hazlitt  was 
deaf  to  the  elemental  appeal  of  love.  It  is  to  be 
feared,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  turned  wilfully 
from  the  Uranian  to  the  Pandemian  goddess. 
Certainly  the  episode,  which  was  the  occasion  of 
his  divorce  and  which  he  gave  to  the  world  in  his 
Liber  A?noris — whatever  else  may  be  said  about  it 
— is  one  of  the  few  stories  of  strong,  unrestrained 
passion  in  the  range  of  English  letters.  We 
might  like,  for  decorum's  sake,  to  expunge  that 
relation  from  his  life  and  from  his  works  ;  "  there 
is,"  as  he  himself  confessed,  "something  in  it  dis- 
cordant to  honest  ears."  The  tale  is  simply  the 
vulgar  adventure  of  a  man  who  dandles  the 
daughter  of  his  lodging-house  keeper  on  his 
knees,  becomes  infatuated  with  her,  pours  out 
the  agony  of  his  dejection  in  letters  to  his  friends, 
and  then  prints  letters  and  all,  somewhat  expur- 


84  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

gated  to  be  sure,  in  a  book.  That  is  bad  enough, 
in  all  conscience  ;  but  the  matter  has  been  made 
worse  by  the  recent  publication  of  the  actual  cor- 
respondence. As  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  says:  "  The 
whole  sentimental  structure  of  the  Liber  Amoris 
now  sinks  below  the  stage,  and  joins  the  realm  of 
things  unspeakable — 'vile  kitchen  stuff,'  fit  only 
for  the  midden."  And  yet  there  is  a  reservation 
to  be  made  withal  to  this  criticism.  The  book  is 
something  more  than  merely  sentimental ;  it  is  in 
part  one  of  the  very  few  expressions  of  genuine 
passion  in  the  English  language,  of  that  absolute 
passion  which  taught  him,  as  it  long  ago  taught 
Propertius, 

Hanc  animam  extremae  reddere  nequitiae. 

No  one,  I  think,  can  read  Hazlitt's  last  despairing 
letter  without  feeling  that  note  of  verity  and  gen- 
uineness which  does  much  to  justify  what  might 
otherwise  seem  an  indecent  exposure  of  personal 
emotion.  "  I  saw  her  pale,  cold  form  glide  silent 
by  me,"  he  writes,  "dead  to  shame  as  to  pity. 
Still  I  seemed  to  clasp  this  piece  of  witchcraft  to 
my  bosom  ;  this  lifeless  image,  which  was  all  that 
was  left  of  my  love,  was  the  only  thing  to  which 
my  sad  heart  clung.  Were  she  dead,  should  I 
not  wish  to  gaze  once  more  upon  her  pallid  feat- 
ures ?  She  is  dead  to  me ;  but  what  she  once 
was  to  me  can  never  die  !  The  agony,  the  con- 
flict of  hope  and  fear,  of  adoration  and  jealousy  is 
over  ;  or  it  would,  ere  long,  have  ended  my  life." 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT  85 

And  his  last  words  are  touched  with  the  strange 
tenderness  and  pathos  of  a  man  whose  life  is 
centred  in  the  brooding  faculties  of  the  mind  : 

I  am  afraid  she  will  soon  grow  common  to  my  imagina- 
tion, as  well  as  worthless  in  herself.  Her  image  seems 
fast  "going  into  the  wastes  of  time,"  like  a  weed  that  the 
wave  bears  farther  and  farther  from  me.  Alas !  thou 
poor  hapless  weed,  when  I  entirely  lose  sight  of  thee,  and 
forever,  no  flower  will  ever  bloom  on  earth  to  glad  my 
heart  again ! 

It  is  not  surprising,  after  all,  that  Hazlitt  took 
a  sort  of  glory  to  himself  in  this  episode  which  his 
biographers  to-day  would  so  gladly  forget.  "  I 
am  in  some  sense  proud,"  he  says,  "  that  I  can 
feel  this  dreadful  passion — it  gives  one  a  kind  of 
rank  in  the  kingdom  of  love."  One  is  reminded 
again  of  the  boast  of  Cynthia's  lover,  that  the 
Roman  youths  would  do  reverence  at  his  tomb  for 
his  long  ardours.  The  vulgarity  of  this  incident  in 
Hazlitt' s  life  is  not  due  to  the  excess  of  his  emo- 
tion, but  to  the  worthlessness  of  the  object  on 
which  his  emotion  was  expended.  There  is  some- 
thing pitiful  as  well  as  degrading  in  the  spectacle 
of  this  vehement  passion  beating  itself  against  a 
poor  flabby  creature  which  could  neither  withstand 
nor  return  the  shock.  It  is  only  fair  after  expos- 
ing this  episode  in  Hazlitt' s  life  to  quote  Lamb's 
beautiful  encomium  of  his  old  friend: 

But,  protesting  against  much  that  he  has  written,  and 
some  things  which  he  chooses  to  do  ;  judging  him  by  his 
conversation   which  I  enjoyed  so  long,  and  relished  so 


86  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

deeply  ;  or  by  his  books,  in  those  places  where  no  cloud- 
ing passion  intervenes— I  should  belie  my  own  conscience 
if  I  said  less  than  that  I  think  W.  H.  to  be,  in  his  natural 
and  healthy  state,  one  of  the  wisest  and  finest  spirits 
breathing.  So  far  from  being  ashamed  of  that  intimacy, 
which  was  betwixt  us,  it  is  my  boast  that  I  was  able  for 
so  many  years  to  have  preserved  it  entire  ;  and  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  my  grave  without  finding,  or  expecting  to 
find,  such  another  companion. 

Such  is  the  man  whose  scattered  works  are  now 
for  the  first  time  collected  in  a  complete  and  criti- 
cally annotated  edition,  and  it  has  been  at  least 
curious  to  observe  the  comments  brought  out  in 
the  press  by  this  belated  rehabilitation.  There 
seems  to  be  a  concerted  opinion  that  Hazlitt  is 
read  only  by  those  technically  interested  in  author- 
ship, as  if  his  essays  were  out  of  touch  with  life, 
were  indeed  essentially  bookish,  and  for  the  book- 
ish reader  only.  In  attempting  to  show  the  per- 
versity of  this  view,  I  have  perhaps  dwelt  too 
much  on  Hazlitt  the  man,  and  said  too  little 
specifically  about  his  essays  ;  my  justification  lies 
in  the  fact  that  the  temperament  of  the  writer 
dominates  his  work  to  so  overmastering  a  degree 
that  to  unfold  the  one  is  properly  to  criticise  the 
other. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

In  a  well-known  essay  Hazlitt,  writing  from 
memory,  has  attempted  to  record  one  of  those 
famous  conversations  that  took  place  among  the 
little  group  that  used  to  gather  in  Lamb's  cham- 
bers in  the  Inner  Temple.  The  subject  on  this 
particular  night  was  Persons  One  Would  Wish  to 
Have  Seen,  and  the  discussion  ended  with  that 
beautiful  comparison  by  the  host  himself  of  their 
supposed  behaviour  if  Shakespeare  and  "  that 
other ' '  should  suddenly  appear  at  the  door.  I 
think  to-day  if  such  a  conversation  should  occur 
that  Lamb's  own  name  would  be  almost  the  first 
to  arise  on  the  lips  of  any  lover  of  literature. 
Other  writers — great  poets  and  philosophers  and 
novelists — we  may  admire  more  for  their  accom- 
plishment, but  none  of  these  has  so  endeared  him- 
self to  us  personally  as  "  Elia,"  none  of  them  is 
cherished  in  our  imagination  with  so  sweet  a 
savour.  There  has  in  fact  grown  up  a  kind  of 
legend  about  his  name.1     He  is,  if  ever  writer 

1  It  may  be  counted  as  the  latest  step  in  Lamb's  canon- 
isation that  two  scholars  have  been  spending  the  labour  of 
years  in  giving  his  works  proper  editorial  care.  The  edi- 
tion of  Mr.  E.V.  Lucas,  imported  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
is  notable  for  the  assiduity  with  which  he  has  run  down 

87 


88  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

were,  human  in  his  weaknesses  as  in  his  strength, 
yet  he  dwells  apart  in  our  affection  not  quite  as 
other  men  do.  "  If  there  be  a  Good  Man,  Charles 
Lamb  is  one,"  said  Wordsworth,  who  was  not 
overmuch  given  to  praising.  Good  man  he  was, 
but  to  us  he  has  come  to  be  something  more.  We 
like  to  think  of  him  rather  in  the  words  of  Thack- 
eray, which  FitzGerald  remembered  and  quoted 
long  afterwards:  "  '  Saint  Charles! '  said  Thack- 
eray to  me  thirty  years  ago,  putting  one  of  C.  L.'s 
letters  to  his  forehead."  Thirty  years  ago  went 
back  to  1848,  and  the  letter  that  so  moved  Thack- 
eray was  one  written  by  Lamb  in  1824  to  Bernard 
Barton,  with  a  pretty  postcript  to  Lucy  who  was 
later  to  bring  the  ill-fate  of  matrimony  upon  Fitz- 
Gerald. That  was  the  year  also,  1824,  in  which 
Lamb  wrote  his  verses  In  the  Album  of  Lucy 
Barton  : 

Little  Book,  surnamed  of  white, 
Clean  as  yet,  and  fair  to  sight, 
Keep  thy  attribution  right. 

Never  disproportion 'd  scrawl ; 
Ugly  blot,  that 's  worse  than  all ; 
On  thy  maiden  clearness  fall ! 

Lamb's  allusions  and  quotations.  The  edition  of  Mr. 
William  Macdonald,  imported  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.,  is 
one  of  Dent's  admirable  publications,  and  is  better  fitted 
for  ordinary  reading.  Both  editions  are  very  complete, 
and  contain  much  new  matter.  The  restoration  of  the 
true  text  of  the  Letters  is  alone  a  service  to  be  grateful 
for.     1904. 


CHARLES   LAMB  89 


Whitest  thoughts  in  whitest  dress, 
Candid  meanings,  best  express 
Mind  of  quiet  Quakeress. 

It  would  be  a  pretty  fancy  to  visualise  the 
scene  that  dwelt  so  long  in  FitzGerald's  memory 
— the  letter  which  Lucy  Barton  had  cherished  for 
twenty-four  years  and  had  apparently  lent  or 
given  to  FitzGerald,  her  lover,  if  that  word  can 
be  used  of  so  cool  a  wooer  ;  FitzGerald  showing 
it  to  Thackeray,  and  the  great  novelist,  with  the 
story  of  Pendcnnis  then  at  work  in  his  brain,  lay- 
ing it  reverently  to  his  forehead  as  if  it  had  been 
some  holy  relic.  Lionel  Johnson  has  caught  the 
phrase  up  into  a  poem  that  expresses  most  aptly 
our  feeling  to-day: 

Saint  Charles  !  for  Thackeray  called  thee  so  : 
Saint,  at  whose  name  our  fond  hearts  glow  : 
See  now,  this  age  of  tedious  woe, 

That  snaps  and  snarls  ! 
Thine  was  a  life  of  tragic  shade  ; 
A  life,  of  care  and  sorrow  made  : 
But  nought  could  make  thine  heart  afraid, 

Gentle  Saint  Charles ! 

Encumbered  dearly  with  old  books, 
Thou,  by  the  pleasant  chimney  nooks, 
Didst  laugh,  with  merry-meaning  looks, 

Thy  griefs  away  ; 
We,  bred  on  modern  magazines, 
Point  out,  how  much  our  sadness  means, 
And  some  new  woe  our  wisdom  gleans, 

Day  by  dull  day. 


90  SIIELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Lover  of  London  !  whilst  thy  feet 
Haunted  each  old  familiar  street, 
Thy  brave  heart  found  life's  turmoil  sweet, 

Despite  life's  pain. 
We  fume  and  fret  and,  when  we  can, 
Cry  up  some  new  and  noisy  plan, 
Big  with  the  Rights  and  Wrongs  of  Man : 

And  where  's  the  gain? 

Gentle  Saint  Charles  !  I  turn  to  thee, 
Tender  and  true  :  thou  teachest  me 
To  take  with  joy,  what  joys  there  be, 

And  bear  the  rest. 
Walking  thy  London  day  by  day, 
The  thought  of  thee  makes  bright  my  way, 
And  in  thy  faith  I  fain  would  stay, 

Doing  my  best. 

That  is  the  golden  chain  from  the  past  to  the 
present — Lamb,  Lucy  Barton,  Thackeray,  Fitz- 
Gerald,  Lionel  Johnson. 

But  if  Lamb  has  grown  to  be  Saint  Charles  to 
us,  it  is  for  other  reasons  than  those  which  hallow 
the  sacred  names  of  the  calendar.  We  think  of 
the  saints  as  of  men  who  have  risen  above  the 
turmoil  of  life,  together  with  its  frailties,  and  there 
is  something  austere  in  their  altitude.  To  us 
they  seem  a  little  sad,  and  we  are  not  sure  we 
should  choose  them  for  companions.  With  Lamb 
it  is  quite  different.  His  very  errors  have  become 
a  part  of  the  sweet  legend  that  surrounds  him. 
We  remember  his  taste  for  the  exhilarating  cup, 
and  think  we  should  like  him  best  when  warmed 
by  kindly  potations.     Who  could  have  resisted  an 


CHARLES    LAMB  91 

invitation  to  those  nodes  ambrosiana :  "  Cards  & 
cold  mutton  in  Russell  St.  on  Friday  at  8  &  nine. 
Gin  and  Jokes  from  }4  past  that  time  to  12"? 
We  remember,  too,  his  reply  to  the  bishop  who 
inquired  how  he  had  learned  to  smoke  such  furi- 
ous pipes:  "  Sir,  I  toiled  for  it  as  some  men  toil 
for  virtue!"  Even  his  trick  of  stammering  is 
a  cherished  accident  of  his  humorous  talk,  and 
without  his  wavering  gait  and  those  poor  spindle- 
legs  we  should  lose  some  relish  of  his  perambula- 
tions in  London  streets.  Were  this  all,  we  might 
enjoy  his  wit  and  laugh  at  his  oddities  as  it  had 
been  another  Theodore  Hook  ;  but  beneath  this 
seeming  levity  there  was,  as  all  the  world  now 
knows,  a  deep-sunk  basis  of  character  and  of 
tragic  circumstance.  There  is  no  need  to  rehearse 
the  fatal  scene  in  the  Temple  when  Mary  in  a 
sudden  frenzy  of  madness  killed  her  mother,  or  to 
relate  the  brother's  lifelong  devotion  and  renunci- 
ation. Lamb  was  twenty-one  years  old  at  the  time 
of  the  incident,  a  youth  given  to  indulge  in  some- 
what vague  literary  aspirations  and  vaguer  relig- 
ious yearnings  under  the  domination  of  Coleridge. 
The  effect  of  that  frightful  scene  on  his  over- 
sensitive nerves  (he  had  himself  passed  six  weeks 
in  a  madhouse  less  than  a  year  before)  was  in- 
delible. At  first  it  deepened  his  religious  vein 
with  results  not  fortunate  for  literature  ;  for  the 
piety  of  a  young  man  is  not  often  edifying,  and  if 
there  be  any  part  of  Lamb's  writings  one  could 
wish  away,  it  is  certainly  those  early  letters  in 


92  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

which  he  mouths  religion  with  his  mentor.  But 
the  mood  soon  changes.  Rather  abruptly  in  the 
year  1800  (four  years  after  the  calamity)  we  ob- 
serve a  complete  alteration  in  his  tone.  He  has 
shaken  off  the  ghostly  dominion  of  Coleridge, 
whose  patronising  ways  have  evidently  grown  a 
little  irksome.  The  last  straw,  apparently,  was 
when  Coleridge  used  the  epithet  "  gentle  "  of  him 
in  a  poem.  L,amb  resents  the  word  with  some 
asperity,  and,  in  place  of  confessing  his  soul, 
breaks  out  into  the  boast  that  he  is  "suffering 
from  the  combined  effects  of  two  days'  drunken- 
ness." We  hope  that  he  exaggerates  his  de- 
bauchery somewhat,  but,  true  or  fanciful,  that 
confession  marks  the  beginning  of  the  real  Charles 
Lamb.  Thenceforth  his  letters  and  his  more  de- 
liberate productions  show  what  can  only  be  called 
a  half-conscious  pose,  a  humorous  waiving  of  the 
serious  matters  of  life,  a  refusal  to  harbour  the 
deeper  emotions,  as  if  he  had  chosen  for  his  motto 
those  words  in  an  earlier  letter:  "  With  me  '  the 
former  things  are  passed  away,'  and  I  have  some- 
thing more  to  do  than  to  feel."  The  tragic  cir- 
cumstance is  still  not  far  removed,  and  the  recur- 
ring allusion  to  Mary  ' '  from  home  ' '  throws  a 
touch  of  half-averted  pathos  into  the  humour — 
pathos  that  only  at  long  intervals  rises  into  shrill- 
ness, as  when,  under  unusual  stress,  he  exclaims 
to  Wordsworth  :  ' '  They  have  had  the  care  of  her 
before.  I  see  little  of  her:  alas  !  I  too  often  hear 
her.     Sunt  lachrymce  rerum  !  ' '     But  for  the  most 


CHARLES   LAMB  93 

part  the  sadness  of  his  mood  passes  through  the 
same  change  as  the  other  emotions  and  peers  at 
us  through  the  quaint  mask  of  a  jest.  "  The 
wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  Lambs,"  he  writes 
in  a  letter  to  Miss  Hutchinson,  after  telling  how 
Mary  has  been  "gone  from  home  these  five 
weeks." 

This,  then,  is  the  Lamb  so  endeared  to  our 
imagination.  When  the  calamity  first  smote  him 
down  and  he  cried  out  to  his  friend  for  consola- 
tion, Coleridge  responded :  "I  look  upon  you 
as  a  man  called  by  sorrow  and  anguish,  and  a 
strange  desolation  of  hopes,  into  quietness,  and  a 
soul  set  apart  and  made  peculiar  to  God  ! "  He 
was  indeed  a  soul  set  apart,  but  it  was  to  man, 
not  to  God.  He  alone  found  the  secret  of  sacri- 
ficing his  heart  to  stern  and  unrelenting  duty  and 
of  dwelling  the  while  resolutely  on  the  surface  of 
life,  a  patron  of  puns  and  a  devotee  of  the  genial 
vices.  And  this  is  the  quality  of  his  writings  as 
well  as  of  his  character,  although  some,  I  know, 
misled  by  their  devotion,  would  discover  graver 
traits  in  his  work.  One  of  his  latest  editors,  Mr. 
Macdonald,  insists  that  "his  intellect  was  the 
primary  and  really  great  thing  in  him,  greater  and 
rarer  far  than  his  humour  or  any  other  separa- 
ble qualities  recognised  in  literature."  That  is 
true  in  a  sense,  but  it  is  intellect  turned  from 
the  deeper  questions  and  made  to  play  over  the 
surface  of  things  with  a  coruscating  light  that 
prevents    the  eye   from    penetrating    into   their 


94  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

depths.  There  is  an  exquisite  make-believe 
about  his  essays,  like  the  quieting  unreality  of 
country  scenes  to  one  whose  life  has  been  "  in 
populous  cities  pent."  No  doubt  a  vein  of  pathos 
runs  through  them  all,  but  it  is  of  a  mocking 
kind  and  makes  no  appeal  to  the  lacrimarum  fons. 
Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years  Ago  was 
in  reality  a  school  of  hard  discipline ;  passed 
through  the  alembic  of  Lamb's  fancy,  it  becomes 
unreal  and  very  beautiful,  a  memory  of  dreams. 
He  goes  to  Oxford  in  the  Vacation,  and  that  city 
of  scholars  and  gay  livers  is  suddenly  transformed 
into  a  refuge  of  ghosts. 

What  a  place  to  be  in  is  au  old  library  !  [he  exclaims.] 
It  seems  as  though  all  the  souls  of  all  the  writers  that 
have  bequeathed  their  labours  to  these  Bodleians  were 
reposing  here,  as  in  some  dormitory,  or  middle  state.  I 
do  not  want  to  handle,  to  profane  the  leaves,  their  wind- 
ing sheets.  I  could  as  soon  dislodge  a  shade.  I  seem  to 
inhale  learning,  walking  amid  their  foliage :  and  the 
odour  of  their  old  moth-scented  coverings  is  fragrant  as 
the  first  bloom  of  those  sciential  apples  which  grew  amid 
the  happy  orchard. 

The  same  dissolving  power  of  the  fancy  is  turned 
upon  The  Old  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple,  and 
the  place  is  forever  haunted  by  those  three  reven- 
ants,  Thomas  Coventry,  Samuel  Salt,  and  Peter 
Pierson,  walking  not  with  arms  linked  together — 
"  as  now  our  stout  triumvirs  sweep  the  streets" 
—  but  with  hands  folded  behind  their  backs, 
strange  figures  that  are  very  much  of  this  earth, 


CHARLES    LAMB  95 

yet  somehow  unconcerned  with  its  prosaic  busi- 
ness. He  writes  of  those  "  dim  specks"  of  the 
London  streets,  the  childish  Chimney -Sweepers 
"blooming  through  their  first  nigritude,"  who 
"  from  their  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chimneys),  in  the 
nipping  air  of  a  December  morning,  preach  a  les- 
son of  patience  to  mankind";  and  their  sermon 
is  a  quaint  echo  of  the  Shakespearian, 

Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Or  he  takes  the  beggars  of  the  metropolis  for  a 
theme,  and  in  place  of  the  brutal  and  hideous 
pictures  which  a  modern  "naturalist "  would  give 
us,  he  turns  to  muse  on  the  idyllic  tenderness  of 
Vincent  Bourne's  blind  vagrant  and  dog  : 

Hi  mores,  haec  vita  fuit,  dum  fata  sinebant. 

Again,  he  gathers  up  into  an  essay  the  bereave- 
ments and  long  abnegations  of  his  bachelor  life, 
and  instead  of  the  bitter  arraignment  of  Thom- 
son's outcast  in  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night  or  the 
half-renounced  envy  of  Christina  Rossetti — 

While  I  ?     I  sat  alone  and  watched  ; 

My  lot  in  life,  to  live  alone 
In  mine  own  world  of  interests, 

Much  felt  but  little  shown  ; — 

instead  of  these,  he  has  woven  his  regrets  into 
Dream  Children,  a  Reverie,  where  the  pathos  is  as 


96  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

aerial  and  undisturbing  as  the  shadows  that  fall 
irom  smoke. 

And  his  critical  disquisitions,  fine  and  pene- 
trating as  they  are  in  many  respects,  have  to  my 
mind  something  of  the  same  unsubstantiality.  I 
read  of  Shakespeare  in  Lamb's  essays,  and  I  do 
not  seem  to  be  in  the  presence  of  the  great  con- 
structive dramatist  who  carried  the  weight  of  hu- 
man experience  in  his  brain,  but  of  some  sovereign 
alchemist  skilled  to  convert  the  leaden  cares  of 
life  into  golden  leaf.  It  is  characteristic  of  Lamb's 
paradoxical  spirit  and  half-conscious  irony  that 
he  should  have  found  Shakespeare  more  fitted  for 
the  cabinet,  where  the  reader's  fancy  had  freer 
license  to  sport,  than  for  the  stage  with  its  closer 
confinement  of  realism.  The  whole  Elizabethan 
drama,  which  he  so  loved  and  which  he  did  so 
much  to  restore  to  general  favour,  attracted  him 
chiefly  by  its  salient  points  of  light,  and  the  plays 
of  the  Restoration  were  avowedly  dear  to  him  be- 
cause they  carry  us  into  a  region  ' '  beyond  the 
diocese  of  the  strict  conscience,"  into  the  vision 
of  that  "pageant  where  we  should  sit  as  uncon- 
cerned at  the  issues,  for  life  or  death,  as  at  a  battle 
of  the  frogs  and  mice. ' ' 

Much  of  Lamb's  poetry  is  of  a  frankly  ephe- 
meral sort,  album  verses  for  importunate  young 
ladies  and  the  like,  but  even  in  those  poems  that 
are  in  a  way  dedicated  to  the  severer  muses  the 
same  note  of  fanciful  unreality,  concealing  a 
basis  of  discarded  emotions,  may  be  heard  as  in 


CHARLES   LAMB  97 

the  letters  and  essays.  I  think  this  note  can  be 
detected  in  his  tragedy  of  John  Woodvil,  in  his 
lament  over  The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  written,  be 
it  observed,  when  he  was  scarcely  out  of  his  teens, 
and  in  those  lovely  stanzas  to  Hester,  whose  close 
rises  higher  in  poetic  grace  perhaps  than  he  any- 
where else  attained : 

My  spritely  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  Summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  fore-warning  ? 

Those  verses,  we  know,  were  inspired  by  a 
young  Quaker  whom  Lamb  was  "  in  love  with  " 
for  some  years  while  he  lived  at  Pentonville,  and 
to  whom,  characteristically,  he  never  once  spoke. 
Their  charm  is  of  the  Elizabethan  school,  but 
they  follow  the  models  of  the  lesser  poets  who 
turned  from  the  direct  expression  of  the  emotions 
and  from  the  language  of  power  to  the  more  wan- 
ton light  of  the  fancy.  It  would  be  interesting, 
if  not  too  technical,  to  carry  this  contrast  into  the 
very  mechanism  of  Lamb's  style  and  show  how  it 
is  based  on  the  Euphuistic  school  and  on  the  meta- 
physical writers  who  cared  more  for  the  lambent 
play  of  the  intellect  than  for  directness  and  depth 
of  impression.     His  language  does  not  flow,  but 


98  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

moves  with  a  continual  eddy  ;  the  interest  is  in 
the  quaintness  of  individual  words  and  phrases 
rather  than  in  sustained  harmony.  The  effect  is 
delightful,  piquant,  tantalising,  and  at  times,  it 
must  be  confessed,  a  little  saccade  and  even  weari- 
some. We  remember  this  criticism  which  L,amb 
pronounced  on  Elia,  "  The  informal  habit  of  his 
mind,  joined  to  an  inveterate  impediment  of 
speech,  forbade  him  to  be  an  orator,"  and  we 
wonder  whether  this  impediment  does  not 
now  and  then  manifest  itself  in  a  certain  re- 
tardation of  his  written,  as  well  as  his  spoken, 
utterance.  Unique  and  exquisite  as  his  more  arti- 
ficial language  often  is,  I  confess  to  like  even  better 
those  occasional  passages  where  he  forgets  his 
mannerism  and  speaks  out  with  simple  straight- 
forwardness. As  an  illustration  of  this  chaster 
style  I  would  select  that  vindication  of  his  friend 
in  the  letter  of  Elia  to  Robert  Southey,  which  I 
have  already  cited  in  my  characterisation  of  Haz- 
litt.  The  passage,  thus  inviting  a  comparison 
with  Hazlitt,  would  have  the  further  merit  of 
calling  attention  to  the  widely  different  traditions 
which,  coming  down  side  by  side  in  English 
literature  from  the  beginning,  have  divided  the 
aims  of  these  two  friends.  Hazlitt,  with  his 
passion  and  force  and  weight  of  utterance,  de- 
scends by  direct  inheritance  from  Marlowe  and 
Hooker  and  Milton  ;  L,amb,  with  his  quaintness 
and  emphasis  on  phrase  and  word,  is  a  later-born 
brother  of  Lyly  and  Sidney  and  Quarles  and  Fuller. 


CHARLES   LAMP,  99 

Only  one  writer,  perhaps,  ever  united  in  his  own 
genius  these  two  divergent  temperaments  —  Sir 
Thomas  Browne. 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  it  is  the  man 
Charles  Lamb  after  all  which  makes  his  writings 
so  precious,  uor  lose  sight  of  that  fine  personality 
of  his  which  so  intimately  pervades  his  essays  and 
sketches  that  they  seem  all  to  drop  naturally  into 
place  with  his  private  correspondence.  Nor,  as  I 
have  attempted  to  show,  is  the  whimsical  license 
of  his  character  the  least  fascinating  phase  of  it 
for  us  to-day.  With  what  Olympian  assurance 
this  man  of  many  renunciations  knew  how  to 
jest  !  There  is  a  story  of  his  Jovian  hilarity  told 
in  Haydon's  Diary  which  has  been  quoted  more 
than  once,  and  which  I  may  be  permitted  to  bor- 
row in  turn.  A  constellation  of  poets,  as  Lamb 
might  say,  had  foregathered  in  Haydon's  cham- 
bers, and  into  their  midst  had  strayed  an  admiring 
but  prosaic  gentleman,  a  nameless  Comptroller  of 
Stamps.     Says  the  diarist ; 

Wheu  we  retired  to  tea  we  found  the  Comptroller.  In 
introducing  him  to  Wordsworth  I  forgot  to  say  who  he 
was.  After  a  little  time  the  Comptroller  looked  down, 
looked  up,  and  said  to  Wordsworth,  "  Don't  you  think, 
sir,  Milton  was  a  great  genius?"  Keats  looked  at  me, 
Wordsworth  looked  at  the  Comptroller.  Lamb,  who  was 
dozing  by  the  fire,  turned  round  and  said:  "Pray,  sir, 
did  you  say  Milton  was  a  great  genius?"  "No,  sir,  I 
asked  Mr.  Wordsworth  if  he  were  not?"  "Oh,"  said 
Lamb,  "  then  you  are  a  silly  fellow."  "  Charles!  my  dear 
Charles  !"  said  Wordsworth  ;  but  Lamb,  perfectly  mno- 


lOO  SI1KLBURNE    ESSAYS 

cent  of  the  confusion  he  had  created,  was  off  again  by 
the  fire. 

After  an  awful  pause,  the  Comptroller  said  ;  "  Don't 
you  think  Newton  a  great  genius  ?  "  I  could  not  stand  it 
any  longer.  Keats  put  his  head  into  my  books.  Ritchie 
squeezed  in  a  laugh.  Wordsworth  seemed  asking  him- 
self, "  Who  is  this  ?  "  Lamb  got  up,  and  taking  a  candle, 
said  :  "  Sir,  will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  your  phrenologi- 
cal development?"  He  then  turned  his  back  on  the 
poor  man,  and  at  every  question  of  the  Comptroller  he 
chanted : 

"Diddle,  diddle,  dumpling,  my  son  John 
Went  to  bed  with  his  breeches  on." 

The  man  in  office,  finding  Wordsworth  did  not  know  who 
he  was,  said  in  spasmodic  and  half-chuckling  anticipation 
of  assured  victory:  "I  have  had  the  honour  of  some 
correspondence  with  you,  Mr.  Wordsworth."  "  With 
me,  sir?"  said  Wordsworth;  "not  that  I  remember." 
"Don't  you,  sir?  I  am  a  Comptroller  of  Stamps." 
There  was  a  dead  silence  ;  the  Comptroller  evidently 
thinking  that  was  enough.  While  we  were  waiting  for 
Wordsworth's  reply,  Lamb  sung  out: 

"Hey  diddle,  diddle, 
The  cat  and  the  fiddle." 

"  My  dear  Charles  !"  said  Wordsworth. 

"  Diddle,  diddle,  dumpling,  my  son  John," 

chanted  Lamb ;  and  then,  rising,  exclaimed :  "  Do  let  me 
have  another  look  at  that  gentleman's  organs."  Keats 
and  I  hurried  Lamb  into  the  painting  room,  shut  the 
door,  and  gave  way  to  inextinguishable  laughter.  Monk- 
house  followed  and  tried  to  get  Lamb  away.  We  went 
back,    but    the    Comptroller    was    irreconcilable.      We 


CHARLES    LAMB  ioi 

soothed  and  smiled,  and  asked  him  to  supper.  He 
stayed,  though  his  dignity  was  sorely  affected.  How- 
ever, being  a  good-natured  man,  we  parted  all  in  good 
humour,  and  no  ill  effects  followed. 

All  the  while,  until  Monkhouse  succeeded,  we  could 
hear  Lamb  struggling  in  the  painting  room  and  calling  at 
intervals,  "  Who  is  that  fellow?  Allow  me  to  see  his  or- 
gans once  more." 

Certainly  the  denizens  of  Olympus  laid  aside 
their  dignity  on  that  day  ;  an  unsympathetic  ob- 
server might  even  have  found  them  acting  peril- 
ously like  buffoons.  Indeed,  there  is  another 
aspect  that  cannot  be  disregarded  in  the  whole 
conduct  of  this  genial  wit.  Sometimes,  if  the 
truth  must  out,  that  terrible  picture  of  the  man  as 
he  appeared  to  Carlyle  recurs  unpleasantly  to  the 
memory : 

Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  came  daily  once  or  oftener  ; 
a  very  sorry  pair  of  phenomena.  Insuperable  proclivity 
to  gitt,  in  poor  old  Lamb.  His  talk  contemptibly  small, 
indicating  wondrous  ignorance  and  shallowness 
in  fact,  more  like  "  diluted  insanity  "  (as  I  defined  it) 
than  anything  of  real  jocosity,  "humour,"  or  geniality. 
.  .  .  He  was  the  leanest  of  mankind,  tiny  black 
breeches  buttoned  to  the  knee-cap,  and  no  farther,  sur- 
mounting spindle  legs  also  in  black,  face  and  head  fineish, 
black,  bony,  lean,  and  of  a  Jew  type  rather ;  in  the  eyes 
a  kind  of  smoky  brightness  or  confused  sharpness  ;  spoke 
with  a  stutter ;  in  walking  tottered  and  shuffled  ;  emblem 
of  imbecility  bodily  and  spiritual  (something  of  real 
insanity,  I  have  understood),  and  yet  something,  too,  of 
humane,  ingenuous,  pathetic,  sportfully  much-enduring. 
Poor  Lamb !     He  was  infinitely  astonished  at  my  Wife  ; 

LiB?     f 
UNIVERSITY  Of  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


102  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

and  her  quiet  encounter  of  his  too  ghastly  London  wit  by 
cheerful  native  ditto.     Adieu,  poor  Lamb  ! 

There  are  occasions  when  his  persistent  refusal  to 
face,  in  words  at  least,  the  graver  issues  of  life, 
when  his  deliberate  search  for  the  quaint  and  the 
affected  do  actually  present  him  in  this  spectral 
aspect  which  struck  Carlyle.     He  could  jest   in 
an  essay  over  his  drunkenness  ;  hanging  and  the 
stocks  were  to  him  a  subject  of  laughter  ;  the  stale 
Elizabethan  mockery  of ' '  horns ' '  was  still  comical 
to  him  ;  love,  sickness,  death,  even  friendship,  in 
which  he  was  so  much  honoured,  were  in  turn 
given   over   to   his   amusement.     We  remember 
Emerson's  trumpet-text  from  the  Koran  :  "  The 
heavens  and  the  earth,  and  all  that  is  between 
them,  think  ye  we  have  created  them  in  jest?" 
How  refreshing  it  would  be  if  a  little  oftener  this 
much-enduring  man  would  lay  aside  his  pose  and 
speak  out  straight  from  the  heart,  if  he  could  find 
confidence  to  lose  his  wit  in  the  tragic  emotions 
that  must  have  waked  with  him  by  day  and  slept 
with   him  at  night.     And  in  the  end   it   seems 
almost  as  if  fate  had  taken  revenge  on  him  for  his 
wilful  disregard  of  sorrow  and  pain.     All  letters 
are  sad  as  the  writer  approaches  old  age,  but  few 
are  so  strangely  and  unconsciously  disturbing  as 
Lamb's.     As  the  burden  of  years  closed  in  upon 
him  and  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  passed  away,  there 
came  in  its  place  a  weary  vacuity,  a  bleak  mockery 
of  wit,  broken  at  times  by  a  stammering  cry  of 
pain  such  as  it  is  not  good  to  hear.     We  resent 


CHARLES    LAMB  103 

this  failure  of  his  long-sustained  wit.  The  picture 
of  the  lonely  man  moving  from  home  to  home 
in  the  suburbs  of  London  is  pathetic  almost  to 
tears.  So  the  ineluctable  Nemesis  overtook  him, 
too,  at  the  last.  And  if  you  ask  me  how  I  recon- 
cile this  aspect  of  Lamb  with  that  other  aspect 
which  has  gained  for  him  the  title  of  saint,  I  reply 
that  I  do  not  attempt  to  reconcile  them.  It  all 
depends  on  the  reader  and  on  the  reader's  chang- 
ing moods.  There  is  a  time  to  look  solemnly  into 
the  face  of  life,  and  then  these  letters  and  essays 
repel  us,  as  they  did  Carlyle,  with  their  ghastly 
London  wit.  There  is  a  time  for  laughter  and  for 
quaint  fancy  that  dallies  lightly  with  the  emo- 
tions, and  then  we  reflect  on  the  sublime  courage 
of  this  man  who  could  smile  where  others  would 
despair,  and  with  Thackeray  we  lay  his  letters  to 
our  forehead,  and  call  him  Saint  Charles.  And 
the  latter  mood  is  wiser,  on  the  whole,  and  safer 
and  more  just. 


KIPLING  AND  FITZGERALD 

"  THE  SEVEN  SEAS  "   AND  "  THE  RUBAIYAT  " 

There  was  a  story  current  not  long  ago  of  a 
London  editor  who  was  rash  enough  to  wager 
that  no  paragraph  on  Kipling  or  FitzGerald  should 
appear  in  his  journal  during  a  stated  period, — and, 
needless  to  add,  he  lost  the  bet  in  the  very  next 
issue.  This  endless  flux  of  gossip  about  two 
chosen  names,  with  here  and  there  a  word  of  seri- 
ous criticism  smuggled  in,  is  indeed  one  of  the 
curiosities  of  our  modern  literary  magazines  ;  and 
the  peculiarity  of  it  all  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that 
two  authors  could  scarcely  be  selected  from  the 
body  of  English  literature  more  opposed  to  each 
other  in  style  and  intention.1 

Apart  from  this  journalistic  notoriety,  none  of 

1  This  essay  was  written  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  the 
year  1899,  and  was  not,  I  think,  a  false  presentation  of 
literary  conditions  when  both  Kipling  and  FitzGerald 
were  at  their  apogee.  Since  that  time  the  habit  of  writ- 
ing recklessly  about  Kipling,  at  least,  has  gone  out 
of  style.  As  regards  FitzGerald,  I  feel,  in  reading  over 
these  pages,  that  the  silly  talk  of  the  day  led  me  to  pass 
too  lightly  over  the  extraordinary  beauty  and  humanity 
of  his  work. 

104 


KIPLING   AND    FITZGERALD  105 

our  poets,  not  even  Byron,  has  enjoyed  just  the 
kind  of  popularity  which  Kipling  has  achieved. 
Other  poets  have  received  equal  or  greater  honour 
from  the  cultured  public,  but  our  new  Anglo- 
Saxon  bard  appeals  with  like  force  to  the  scholarly 
and  the  illiterate  ;  his  speech  has  become,  as  it 
were,  the  voice  of  the  people.  Mr.  William  Archer, 
in  his  American  Jottings,  gives  an  apt  illustration 
of  this.  On  leaving  his  steamer  at  New  York  Mr. 
Archer ' '  jumped  on  the  platform  of  a  horse-car  on 
West  Street,"  and  was  accosted  by  the  conductor 
asfollows:  "  '  I  s' pose  you  've  heard  that  Kipling 
has  been  very  ill  ?  .  .  .  He's  pulling  through 
now,  though.  .  .  .  He  ought  to  be  the  next 
Poet  Laureate.  .  .  .  He  don't  follow  no  beaten 
tracks.  He  cuts  a  road  for  himself  every  time, 
right  through  ;  an'  a  mighty  good  road,  too  !  '  " 

The  fame  of  the  Rub&iy&t  is  of  a  different  sort 
altogether,  yet  not  less  real  in  its  own  sphere. 
One  of  our  ambassadors,  himself  a  devotee  of  the 
"  Suffolk  dreamer,"  has  related  how  he  heard  a 
stanza  of  the  poem  quoted  in  a  far-away  mining 
camp  ;  and  I  have  read  of  a  society  of  enthusiasts 
in  England,  who,  with  roses  garlanding  their 
brows,  meet  together  and  dine  in  honour  of  their 
prophet.  Very  few  poems,  perhaps  no  poem  of 
its  length,  have  exercised  so  marked  an  effect  on 
writers  of  a  certain  class  ;  and  the  homage  paid  to 
this  jewel  among  translations  is  strikingly  mani- 
fested by  the  number  of  aspirants — including  Mr. 
L,e  Gallienne,  it  may  be  observed,  one  of  Kipling's 


106  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

few  literary  foes — who  have  tried,  and  are  still 
trying,  to  do  the  work  over  again  more  to  their 
own  taste,  eager  apparently  to  win  renown  by 
gilding  refined  gold. 

The  interest  taken  in  these  two  authors  is,  in 
fact,  so  persistent  and  so  extraordinary  that  it 
might  seem  as  if  the  corpus  vulgatum  of  our  poetry 
were  destined  to  shrink  within  these  narrow  limits; 
and  it  is  a  timely  question  to  consider  what  strange 
fatality  has  yoked  together  in  notoriety  this  ill- 
assorted  couple,  and  what  their  fame  signifies  to 
us  in  our  racial  development. 

The  cause  of  Kipling's  popularity  is  not  far  to 
seek.  For  many  years  the  Anglo-Saxon  people, 
in  their  ever-growing  self-consciousness,  have 
been  waiting  for  some  poet  to  formulate  their  ex- 
periences and  needs,  and  have  not  been  slow  to 
express  open  dissatisfaction  with  otherwise  ac- 
credited singers.  Tennyson  dwelt  for  them  in  a 
world  of  shadowy  idealism  ;  he  had  no  sympathy 
with  the  democratic  movement ;  he  lapsed  in  his 
latter  days  into  a  vein  of  pantheistic  mysticism 
especially  abhorrent  to  the  straightforward  Briton. 
Browning  was  concerned  mainly  with  that  subtle 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  worlds  of  sense 
and  faith  which  finds  its  problems  and  symbolism 
in  the  Roman  Church, — and  nothing  so  disturbs 
the  stolid  Philistine  as  this  blending  of  the  real 
and  the  unreal  ;  furthermore  Browning  was  ob- 
scure. Iyongfellow  sang  with  exquisite  grace  the 
virtues  and  aspirations  of  the  home-loving  people, 


KIPLING   AND    FITZGERALD  107 

but  failed  to  voice  its  rude  conquering  temper  out- 
of-doors.  Matthew  Arnold  chose  for  himself  a 
region  of  sublimated  doubt  and  faith,  interesting 
enough  to  Oxford,  but  incomprehensible  to  the 
larger  public.  Each  and  all  of  these  poets  had  of 
necessity  strong  traits  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  char- 
acter, but  they  missed  its  dominant  chord,  and  so 
remained  more  or  less  isolated  in  the  realm  of  pure 
art. 

For  this  reason  we  can  understand  the  acclaim 
with  which  a  poet  has  been  received  who  actually 
sings  in  stirring  rhythms  the  instincts  of  the  peo- 
ple. And  in  truth  both  the  virtues  and  defects  of 
Kipling  are  such  as  to  render  him  a  popular  idol. 
One  cannot  easily  imagine  to  himself  a  car  con- 
ductor enthusiastic  over  Milton  or  Spenser  or 
Shakespeare  ;  these  luminaries  revolve  in  a  region 
beyond  his  comprehension.  Yet  if  Kipling  fails  to 
strike  the  highest  note,  the  reception  given  him 
by  such  critics  as  Professor  Norton  proves  that  he, 
too,  in  his  own  way,  is  a  true  artist  and  no  moun- 
tebank of  the  crossroads. 

Probably  what  first  impresses  every  one  on 
reading  The  Seven  Seas —  and  the  idea  comes 
with  peculiar  emphasis  these  days — is  the  im- 
perialistic temper  of  the  poet ;  his  earnest  con- 
viction that  the  English  race,  "  the  Sons  of  the 
Blood,"  are  destined  to  sweep  over  the  earth  and 
fulfil  the  law  of  order  and  civilisation.  "  After  the 
use  of  the  English,  in  straight-flung  words  and 
few,"  he  has  sung  his  stave  of  victory  so  lustily 


108  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

that  the  hearts  of  the  toilers  in  the  fields  and  of 
the  "  dreamers,  dreaming  greatly,  in  the  man- 
stifled  town,"  have  leaped  in  response  to  his  call. 
So  great  is  the  influence  of  hymns  like  the  Reces- 
sional and  The  White  Alan's  Burden  that  to  his 
fame  as  a  poet  has  been  added  something  of  the 
authority  of  a  statesman  ;  he  has  made  himself, 
as  no  other  poet  before  him,  accepti  pars  imperii. 
His  sympathy  with  the  impulse  towards  expansion 
and  his  penetration  into  the  hidden  causes  of  fer- 
ment are  written  large  in  his  Song  of  the  English. 
He  sees  in  the  forward  movement  no  ministerial 
programme  or  prudential  wisdom,  such  as  guides 
the  rulers  of  Germany  and  France  to  fortify  their 
empire  by  seizing  new  lauds,  but  an  irresistible 
impulse  of  the  people  driving  them  out  to  subdue 
and  possess. 

Came  the  Whisper,  came  the  Vision,  came  the  Power 

with  the  Need, 
Till  the  Soul  that  is  not  man's  soul  was  lent  us  to  lead. 
As  the  deer  breaks — as  the  steer  breaks — from  the  herd 

where  they  graze, 
In  the  faith  of  little  children  we  went  on  our  ways. 

But  there  is  another  and  a  deeper  instinct  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race  than  the  impulse  to  expand 
and  absorb.  With  the  power  of  conquest  they 
carry  everywhere  the  law  of  order  and  obedience. 

The  'eathen  in  'is  blindness  bows  down  to  wood  an'  stone  ; 
'E  don't  obey  no  orders  unless  they  is  'is  own  ; 
'E  keeps  'is  side-arms  awful :    'e  leaves  'em  all  about, 
An'  then  comes  up  the  regiment  an'  pokes  the  'eathen 
out,— 


KII'LING   AND   FITZGERALD  109 

sings  Tommy  Atkins  in  his  vigorous  barrack- 
room  idiom  ;  and  he  is  right.  It  is  the  sense  of 
life  as  a  vast  complicated  organisation,  in  which 
every  member  must  play  his  part  bravely  and  un- 
complainingly in  subjection  to  the  whole;  it  is  the 
hearkening  to  "  Law,  Orrder,  Duty  an'  Restraint, 
Obedience,  Discipline  !  "  so  eloquently  ascribed  by 
Mister  Mc Andrews  to  his  beloved  "  seven  thou- 
sand horse-power,"  that  impels  the  race  inevitably 
to  its  goal.  There  may  be,  indeed  there  are,  a 
few  left,  even  in  England,  who  are  not  "  damned 
ijjits,"  and  who  still  think  something  of  the  old 
romance  at  sea  is  spoiled  by  steam  ;  who  feel  that 
in  some  way  the  fairer  and  richer  flower  of  life  is 
crushed  out  by  the  grinding  of  mill  wheels,  and 
that  there  is  a  deeper  joy  of  philosophy  than  can 
come  to  a  man  driven  ruthlessly  and  restlessly  by 
his  own  invented  machine.  But  the  truth  remains 
that  the  civilisation  of  the  day  is  a  product  of  iron 
and  steam,  and  that  victory  belongs  to  those  who 
are  strong  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  new  de- 
mands. Our  late  war  with  Spain  was  sufficient 
proof  of  this. 

Is  it  strange,  therefore,  that  the  people  of  Eng- 
land and  America,  in  these  days  of  unsettled 
ideals,  should  be  genuinely  thrilled  by  the  clarion 
notes  of  a  poet  who  sings  of  the  courage  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  men  behind  the  "reeking  tube"  with 
a  vigour  and  truth,  if  not  with  a  grace,  equal  to 
Homer's  glorification  of  the  ancient  bronze-clad 
heroes ;  who  sees  in  one  of  the  masterful  inven- 


IIO  SHELBUKNE    ESSAYS 

tions  of  commerce  a  mystical  Power  carrying 
salutations  and  warnings  "  o'er  the  waste  of  the 
ultimate  slime,"  and  whispering  its  message  of 
union  to  worlds  dissevered  by  the  sea  ;  who  has 
brought  together,  and  in  a  way  spiritualised,  all 
the  "miracles"  of  a  materialistic  age  for  the  cele- 
bration of  his  love ;  who  has  discovered  in  the 
despised  banjo,  that  can  "travel  with  the  cooking- 
pots  and  pails,"  a  true  successor  of  the  heroic  lyre, 
and  has  heard  from  this  "  Prophet  of  the  Utterly 
Absurd"  a  divine  song  crying  to  the  dweller  in 
wild  places : 

By  the  wisdom  of  the  centuries  I  speak — 
To  the  tune  of  yestertnorn  I  set  the  truth — 

I,  the  joy  of  life  unquestioned — I,  the  Greek — 
I,  the  everlasting  Wonder  Song  of  Youth ! — 

is  it  strange  that  such  a  singer  should  appeal  to 
the  busy  brood  of  the  old  ' '  Sea  wife  ' '  with  some- 
thing more  than  the  force  of  a  mere  lover  of  beauty 
and  maker  of  pretty  verses  ?  The  eyes  even  of 
the  dullest  are  opened,  and  from  the  midst  of  his 
homely  surroundings  he  seems  to  see  arise  in  the 
purity  of  uncorrupted  loveliness  the  vision  of  the 
True  Romance  : 

A  veil  to  draw  'twixt  God  His  law 

And  man's  infirmity, 
A  shadow  kind  to  dumb  and  blind 

The  shambles  where  we  die. 

But  there  is  a  still  higher  reach  in  Kipling  than 
this  glorification  of  a  prosaic  civilisation  and  this 


KIPLING  AND    FITZGERALD  III 

lauding  of  the  character  militant.  At  its  best,  his 
sense  of  order  and  obedience  rises  into  a  pure  feel- 
ing for  righteousness  that  reminds  one  of  the 
ancient  Hebrew  prophets.  He  has  in  him  some- 
thing of  the  stern  Calvinistic  temper  of  his  own 
Mc Andrews  brooding  over  a  world  in  which  the 
active  and  mechanical  virtues  fulfil  their  mission 
under  the  law  of  "  interdependence  absolute,  fore- 
seen, ordained,  decreed."  We  shall  not  soon  out- 
live the  impression  produced  on  the  Anglo-Saxon 
heart  by  those  unexpected  words,  "  Lest  we  for- 
get, lest  we  forget  !  "  Amid  the  empty  jubilation 
of  a  thoughtless  optimism,  the  mind  was  suddenly 
brought  to  recoil  upon  itself,  and  ask  what  higher 
destiny  was  ruling  in  the  affairs  of  men.  The 
Anglo-Saxon  race  more  than  any  other  has  re- 
tained the  real  temper  of  Hebraism,  the  worship 
of  a  force,  dwelling  apart  yet  human  in  its  limita- 
tions, that  shapes  the  activities  of  the  world  to  its 
own  devising.  Jehovah,  the  Lord  of  righteous- 
ness, is  still  England's  God,  and  nowhere  else  is 
the  religion  of  the  laud  better  expressed  than  in 
the  Hymn  before  Action  : 

The  earth  is  full  of  anger, 

The  seas  are  dark  with  wrath, 
The  Nations  in  their  harness 

Go  up  against  our  path  : 
Ere  yet  we  loose  the  legions — 

Ere  yet  we  draw  the  blade, 
Jehovah  of  the  Thunders, 

Lord  God  of  Battles,  aid  ! 


112  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

When  to  Kipling's  instinctive  utterance  of  the 
popular  needs  are  added  his  wit  and  dramatic 
power,  his  skill  in  telling  a  story,  his  mastery  of 
the  clinging  epithet,  his  pulsating  language  and 
sturdy  rhythms,  it  is  easy  to  understand  his  im- 
mense vogue.  The  limitations  that  debar  him 
from  ranking  with  the  truly  great  poets  of  Eng- 
land and  the  world  are  again  inherent  in  the  peo- 
ple for  whom  he  writes, — limitations  which  the 
master  singers  were  able  to  transcend  while  still 
retaining  the  strength  of  the  national  character. 

It  is  one  of  the  ironical  whims  of  Fate  that  the 
man  who  stands  preeminently  for  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  Hebraic  temperament  should  have 
been  born  in  India,  the  land  furthest  removed 
from  that  temper  of  all  the  world.  Righteous- 
ness that  rules  in  the  hurly-burly  of  a  contentious 
life,  he  knows  and  celebrates;  but  of  that  other 
spirit  that  turns  from  the  passion  and  toil  of  ex- 
istence as  from  a  wasteful  illusion,  and  whose  eyes 
are  set  on  solitude  and  a  triumph  of  peace  beyond 
earthly  victories,  there  is  in  Kipling  hardly  a 
breath.  I  know  that  a  poet  is  not  called  to  be  a 
mystic,  that  his  office  is  not  that  of  a  Hindu  rishi 
or  a  mediaeval  Thomas  a  Kempis.  There  must  be 
about  him  always  something  of  that  union  of 
V illusion  et  la  sagesse  which  to  Joubert  seemed  the 
essence  of  art.  Yet  poetry,  to  accomplish  its 
nobler  mission,  must  both  evoke  and  lay  the  pas- 
sions. Through  the  din  of  personal  struggle  and 
personal  emotions  must  break  at  times  the  voice 


KIPLING   AND   FITZGERALD  I  I  3 

of  something  deeper  within  us,  calling  us  to  rest. 
In  the  clash  of  worldly  ambitions  it  happens  now 
and  then  to  a  man  to  pause,  while  a  feeling  of 
unreality  comes  over  him;  and  for  a  moment  he 
knows  that  his  concern  in  the  drama  about  him  is 
purely  fictitious,  and  that  there  is  a  witness  look- 
ing down  with  disdain  on  the  strutting  part  he 
plays.  No  man  ever  achieved  anything  really 
great  in  this  world  without  these  moments  of 
deeper  insight,  and  without  a  certain  contemp- 
tuous indifference  to  his  own  fate.  No  poet  ever 
causes  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  to  expand  with 
the  larger  joy  who  does  not  lift  the  veil  occa- 
sionally and  destroy  the  illusion  he  is  himself 
creating. 

So  at  times,  in  Homer,  the  ten  years  of  calamity 
about  Ilium  seem  filled  with  the  warfare  of 
shadows. 

Thus  the  gods  fated,  and  such  ruin  wove, 
That  song  might  flourish  for  posterity, 

he  sings,  as  if  the  wrath  of  Achilles  and  the  tragic 
courage  of  Hector  were  no  more  than  the  phan- 
tasmagoria of  a  dream.  Both  Achilles  and  Hec- 
tor fight  ever  with  the  sure  foreboding  of  death 
upon  them ;  and  in  the  last  book  of  the  Odyssey, 
— which  is  certainly  added  as  a  summing  up  and 
conclusion  for  both  poems, — the  stalwart  heroes 
who  led  the  tumult  of  battle  now  move  before  us 
as  shadows  whose  futile  life  is  but  a  mockery  of 
their  former  strenuous  deeds.     Virgil  makes  the 

VOL.   II.— 8. 


114  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

plot  of  his  epic  revolve  about  the  dim  pantheistic 
scenes  of  the  sixth  canto,  where  all  that  precedes 
and  all  the  events  that  are  to  follow  arise  in  vision, 
like  figures  beheld  through  the  uncertain  glimmer- 
ing of  the  moon.  Throughout  the  poet's  works 
the  mind  is  continually  startled  by  phrases  filled 
with  a  strange  mystical  glamour.  Dabit  deus  his 
quoque  finem  !  cries  iEneas,  and  we  feel  always 
that  there  is  a  fate  akin  to  the  peace  of  death 
brooding  over  the  actions  and  guiding  them  to 
their  end.  Nor  is  Shakespeare  different  in  this 
respect  from  the  masters  of  antiquity.  Who  can 
forget  the  sensation  of  sudden  liberty  and  enlarge- 
ment that  came  to  him,  as  if  some  new  chamber 
of  thought  or  windows  of  wider  outlook  were 
opened  to  his  mind,  when,  after  the  storm  of  pas- 
sion and  ambition  in  Macbeth,  the  fated  victim 
hears  of  the  queen's  death  ?  His  cry  of  disillusion 
is  in  the  memory  of  every  one,  but  repeated 
quotation  cannot  diminish  its  force  or  pertinency: 

She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life  's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 


KIPLING   AND    FITZGERALD  1 1  5 

So  essential  is  this  higher  element  of  poetry 
that  a  French  writer  of  some  reputation  has  de- 
veloped it  into  a  complete  theory  of  mysticism. 
By  the  side  of  the  indispensable  dialogue  which 
depends  on  the  action  of  a  drama  he  finds  almost 
always  another  dialogue  seemingly  superfluous 
yet  really  that  to  which  the  soul  listens  atten- 
tively; and  on  the  quality  and  extent  of  this  un- 
necessary dialogue  depend  the  character  and  inner 
power  of  the  work.  The  mysterious  and  haunt- 
ing beauty  of  true  tragedy  is  found  in  the  words 
that  are  spoken  by  the  side  of  the  strict  and  mani- 
fest truth — in  the  words  that  conform  to  a  truth 
profounder  and  incomparably  nearer  the  invisible 
soul  that  breathes  through  the  poem.  Now  I  am 
far  from  sustaining  a  theory  which  would  substi- 
tute dramas  built  on  any  such  pseudo-mysticism 
for  the  ballads  of  Kipling.  Yet  one  must  confess 
that  he  misses  in  Kipling  just  this  added  touch 
of  something  deeper  than  what  first  meets  the  ear, 
and  that,  missing  this,  he  comes  away  unsatisfied. 
We  hear  Kipling  constantly  praised  for  his  virility 
and  out-of-door  freedom;  and  this  is  well.  But 
Homer  and  Shakespeare,  no  poets  of  the  closet 
certainly,  were  able  to  combine  this  liberty  with 
the  insight  of  a  profounder  spirituality.  Our  new 
bard  is  lauded  also  for  loyalty  to  the  present;  and 
this  too  is  well.  Yet  Byron  found  it  possible  to 
speak  for  his  own  age,  and  at  the  same  time  as- 
similated largely  from  what  was  memorable  in  the 
past.     In  Childe  Harold's  reflections  on  Italy  and 


Il6  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

other  scenes  of  former  grandeur,  we  enjoy  the 
same  largeness  of  release  from  the  fretful  con- 
straints of  circumstance  which  in  Virgil  comes  to 
us  from  his  pensive  brooding  over  Fate.  One 
may  indeed  question  whether  any  writer  so  little 
formed  by  the  traditions  of  the  past  as  Kipling 
can,  in  this  day  of  inherited  wisdom,  escape  the 
charge  of  crudeness. 

An  attentive  study  of  the  examples  quoted  in 
Matthew  Arnold's  Essay  on  Poetry  might  lead  one 
to  call  this  defect  in  Kipling  a  lack  of  the  ' '  high 
seriousness  "  which  that  critic  adopts  as  a  touch- 
stone of  the  great  style;  but  the  term  at  least  de- 
mands definition.  Seriousness,  if  understood  as 
a  quality  of  the  emotions,  cannot  be  denied  to  the 
author  of  The  Seven  Seas  ;  it  is  in  fact  a  marked 
and  distinguishing  trait  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 
Nor  is  the  defect  due  to  any  weakness  of  the  intel- 
lect. The  world  was  never  more  ready  than  at 
the  present  hour  to  expend  its  intellectual  force  on 
social  or  artistic  problems  ;  it  revels  in  labour  of 
the  sort.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  peculiarity  of 
Kipling's  vocabulary  and  the  continual  looseness 
of  his  grammar,  even  apart  from  the  vitality  of 
his  thought,  render  him  one  of  the  harder  poets 
to  read,  yet  they  in  no  way  detract  from  his 
popularity. 

The  fault  lies  in  another  and  more  essential  fac- 
ulty,— the  will;  and  here  again  there  is  need  of 
careful  analysis.  Any  one  who  looks  deeply  into 
his  own  heart  must  recognise  there  two  distinct 


KIPLING   AND   FITZGERALD  117 

principles  governing  his  life, — the  will  to  act,  and, 
— let  us  not  say  the  will  to  renounce,  for  fear  of 
misinterpretation, — but  rather  the  will  to  refrain; 
and  on  the  right  understanding  of  these  two  fac- 
ulties depends  largely  our  insight  into  much  that 
is  best  and  much  that  is  worst  in  literature.  Now 
no  one  can  read  a  page  of  The  Seven  Seas  without 
being  struck  by  its  splendid  virility:  the  book  is 
in  this  respect  a  faithful  reflection  of  the  restless 
energy  impelling  the  race,  by  fair  means  or  foul, 
to  overrun  and  subdue  the  globe.  But  in  that 
other  and  higher  will,  the  will  to  refrain,  the 
Anglo-Saxons  are,  and  have  always  been,  singu- 
larly deficient.  To  this  character  must  be  at- 
tributed both  the  lack  of  any  genuinely  mystical 
literature  in  England,  and  the  comparative  free- 
dom from  decadence, — phenomena  which,  indeed, 
the  true  Briton  finds  far  from  easy  to  distinguish 
one  from  the  other.  In  fact,  much  of  the  confu- 
sion of  mind  in  regard  to  genius  and  degeneracy, 
spread  abroad  over  the  world  by  such  writers  as 
L,ombroso  and  Max  Nordau,  is  due  to  the  same 
imperfect  analysis.  Let  the  active  individual  will 
be  weakened  by  immorality,  or  whatever  cause, 
and  there  often  arises  a  dissolution  of  the  person- 
ality into  a  flaccid  dream  state,  which  the  ordinary 
observer  associates  with  mysticism,  but  which  is 
in  reality  the  very  opposite  of  that.  Out  of  the 
deliquescence  of  character  and  loosening  of  the 
grip  on  things  actual,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  Paul 
Verlaine  and  Maeterlinck,  springs  a  sham  spirit- 


Il8  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

uality  that  wraps  itself  in  the  allurements  of  the 
senses.  Quite  different  from  this  is  the  mysticism 
of  an  Emerson  or  a  Juan  de  la  Cruz  or  a  Plato, 
where  in  a  strong  character  the  higher  will  to  re- 
frain holds  the  lower  will  as  a  slave  subservient 
to  its  purpose.  The  one  is  the  defalcation  of  the 
will  altogether;  the  other  is  the  subjection  of  the 
lower  will  to  the  higher,  an  exercise  of  the  func- 
tion which  Emerson,  quoting  I  know  not  what 
Eastern  source,  calls  the  "inner  check."  The 
one  is  but  a  bewildering  illusion;  the  other  is  the 
truest  disillusion.  I  would  repeat  that  the  poet 
is  not  called  to  be  a  mystic, —  the  sensuous  ele- 
ment must  always  be  too  predominant  in  his  work 
for  that;  and  yet  only  by  comparison  with  genuine 
mysticism  can  the  recurring  note  of  disillusion  in 
the  greater  poets  be  explained.  It  was  probably 
the  voice  of  this  higher  personality  heard  in  Dante 
that  led  Matthew  Arnold  to  quote  his  In  la  sua 
voluntade  e  nostra  pace  as  an  illustration  of 
"  high  seriousness  "  in  verse. 

Kipling  is  indeed  serious,  with  the  strength  of 
his  Hebraic  spirit;  but  the  general  absence  of  this 
will  to  refrain  in  his  work,  although  it  may  add 
to  his  popularity  among  a  people  of  restless  en- 
ergy, must  effectually  exclude  him  from  the  baud 
of  sacri  vates.  I  remember  the  shock  of  surprise 
that  came  to  me  when,  on  first  reading  The  Seven 
Seas,  I  met  the  lines, 

For  to  possess  in  loneliness 
The  joy  of  all  the  earth  ; 


KIPLING   AND    FITZGERALD  1 19 

so  incongruous  did  the  words  appear  with  the 
bustling  spirit  of  the  book  as  a  whole.  For  the 
moment  I  seemed  to  be  rapt  away  from  the  society 
of  Tommy  Atkins  and  Mr.  McAndrews  to  the  re- 
gion out  of  which  the  inspired  poets  of  old  spoke 
to  us.  Had  Kipling  written  more  in  this  vein,  he 
would  have  escaped  the  charge  of  superficiality. 

But  there  is  something  else  wanting  in  Kipling, 
which  may,  at  the  last  analysis,  be  closely  akin  to 
this  lack  of  true  insight.  I  mean  the  seeking 
after  beauty  as  an  end  in  itself,  as  an  instinct  of 
supreme  joy  like  that  which  inspired  the  opening 
lines  of  Keats' s  Endymion.  In  its  purer  manifes- 
tation this  element  of  beauty  is  but  the  expression 
of  an  inner  harmony  of  the  faculties  depending  on 
the  same  will  to  refrain;  it  is  the  law  of  the  Del- 
phian Apollo,  Nothing  too  much,  working  itself 
out  in  perfect  proportion  of  thought  and  form. 
The  very  foundation  of  poetry,  as  possessing  that 
higher  liberty  of  spirit  growing  out  of  the  har- 
mony of  restraint,  lies  therein;  and  such,  I  gather, 
was  the  notion  of  Coleridge  when  he  traced  the 
source  of  metre  "  to  the  balance  in  the  mind  ef- 
fected by  that  spontaneous  effort  which  strives  to 
hold  in  check  the  workings  of  passion."  Even  in 
its  lower  manifestation,  in  the  love  of  mere  beauty 
of  detail  as  displayed  by  the  lesser  romantic 
writers,  there  must  still  remain  something  of  the 
power  to  withdraw  the  mind  from  the  immediate 
uses  of  things,  and  read  into  them  a  higher  sig- 
nificance.    Of  this  longing  after  beauty  there  is 


120  SHELRURNE   ESSAYS 

singularly  little  in  Kipling  in  comparison  with  the 
force  and  breadth  of  his  genius.  His  most  ardent 
admirers  would  probably  be  surprised  to  find  how 
few  passages  of  real  loveliness  they  could  recall 
in  his  poems;  and  it  is  no  doubt  this  deficiency 
that  inspires  Kipling's  enemies — and  even  he  has 
enemies — to  speak  so  contemptuously  of  his  work. 
I  have  attempted  thus  far  to  show  how  the 
poetry  of  The  Seven  Seas  reflects  both  the  domi- 
nant strength  and  the  deficiencies  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  temper;  there  is  a  curious  interest  in 
comparing  with  it  another  volume  of  almost  equal 
popularity,  in  which  all  that  is  un-English  might 
seem  to  have  come  to  flower.  Within  the  body 
of  the  people  has  sprung  up,  of  late  years,  a  small 
circle  of  men  to  whom  the  restless  activity  of  the 
race  is  strongly  repellent :  they  are  quietists  and 
worshippers  of  pure  beauty.  The  movement  be- 
gan with  the  pre-Raphaelites,  who  sought  in  me- 
diaeval Italy  all  that  was  wanting  in  the  England 
about  them,  and  has  grown  to  include  an  ever 
widening  band  of  malcontents.  For  the  very 
reason  that  they  are  cut  off  from  the  broader  sym- 
pathies with  actual  life,  there  is  something  ineffi- 
cient in  their  work,  something  very  frail  and 
fragile,  which  we  are  wont  to  stigmatise  as  effemi- 
nate or  dilettante.  Beauty  and  form  are  indeed 
the  feminine  elements  of  genius,  which,  as  has 
been  often  observed,  must  embrace  both  the  mas- 
culine and  the  feminine  principles  to  accomplish 
its  best  results.     Alone  and  unsupported  by  the 


KIPLING   AND   FITZGERALD  121 

aggressive  virility  of  thought  and  action,  the  love 
of  beauty  has  always  a  tendency  to  degenerate 
into  effeminacy.  It  is  just  this  flowerlike  grace, 
apart  from  any  sturdier  character,  that  appeals  to 
the  class  of  dilettantes  in  FitzGerald's  translation 
of  the  Rubdiydt.  English  poetry  contains  nothing 
more  exquisitely  lovely  than  such  stanzas  as  this: 

Earth  could  not  answer  ;  nor  the  Seas  that  mourn 
In  flowing  purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn  ; 

Nor  rolling  Heaven,  with  all  his  Signs  reveal'd 
And  hidden  by  the  sleeve  of  Night  and  Morn. 

There  is  in  such  writing  all  the  apt  felicity  of 
Horace,  to  whom  FitzGerald  is  sometimes  likened; 
but  it  must  be  added  that  there  is,  on  the  other 
hand,  too  little  of  the  manly  tone  of  Horace,  and 
of  his  shrewd  reflection  on  life,  which  have  made 
him  the  friendly  mentor  of  the  centuries. 

It  might  seem  at  first  sight  as  if  the  Rubdiydt 
should  attract  this  small  coterie  alone,  were  it  not 
further  true  that  there  is  a  touch  of  the  dilettante 
inherent  in  the  whole  race.  The  very  fact  that 
a  person  has  little  appreciation  of  harmony  and 
beauty  in  their  higher  manifestation  leads  him  to 
make  a  sharp  distinction  in  his  taste  between 
what  appeals  to  the  reason  or  dominant  emotions 
and  what,  under  the  designation  of  beauty,  is  a 
mere  titillation  of  the  fancy.  This  divorce  be- 
tween the  reason  and  the  imagination,  due  to  an 
original  defect  of  temperament  in  the  race,  has 
been  so  widened  by  the  exigencies  of  modern  life 


122  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

that  any  real  synthesis  of  the  powers  has  become 
almost  impossible.  Unwholesome  and  irrational 
as  it  is,  the  division  has  entered  even  into  our 
scheme  of  education,  and  in  our  universities  we 
now  see  the  classical  and  modern-language  facul- 
ties separated  into  semi-hostile  groups  of  pure 
philologians  on  the  one  side,  and  shallow  dabblers 
in  literature  on  the  other;  and  so  impossible  is  any 
mediating  ground  between  the  two  that  even  when 
the  scholar,  who  looks  down  so  superciliously  on 
the  aesthetes,  himself  turns  by  chance  to  notice  lit- 
erature, we  commonly  see  him  fall  into  the  same 
trifling  attitude.  Our  libraries  are  flooded  with 
works  that  have  no  style  or  form  on  the  one  hand, 
and  with  books  of  style  that  have  no  substance  on 
the  other.  And  to  this  same  division  in  a  way  is 
due  the  almost  equal  popularity  of  authors  so  op- 
posite as  Kipling  and  FitzGerald. 

But  our  English  Omar  has  another  claim  on  our 
attention  besides  this  mere  verbal  grace:  his  work 
possesses  a  genuine  psychological  interest  in  so  far 
as  it  reflects  a  peculiar  mood  of  the  day.  The 
band  of  dilettantes  to  whom  his  felicities  of  style 
appeal  so  strongly  represent  also  a  marked  reac- 
tion against  the  predominance  of  Anglo-Saxon 
ideals.  To  a  few  men  has  come  an  inner  awaken- 
ing after  the  despotism  of  the  recent  scientific 
period,  and  a  weariness  born  of  enthusiasms  that 
have  failed  to  carry  the  mind  beyond  their  own 
restricted  circle.  Religious  faith  in  the  old  form- 
ulas of  salvation  has  been  weighed  and  rejected 


KIPLING   AND    FITZGERALD  123 

by  the  scientific  spirit  of  which  Renan  in  France 
and  Huxley  in  England  made  themselves  the 
spokesmen.  But  in  the  end  the  new  faith  has 
been  found  no  more  enlarging  and  no  less  dog- 
matic than  the  old;  and  to  some  the  whirl  and 
stress  of  mechanical  progress  seem  to  have  taken 
from  life  the  few  things  that  were  really  worth 
possessing.  Even  the  mass  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
people,  whose  strenuous  unreflecting  minds  ac- 
cepted the  doctrine  of  material  advance  most 
eagerly,  have  begun  at  last  to  question  dumbly 
their  own  enthusiasm.  The  exultant  words  of  a 
Kipling  still  draw  them  with  the  force  of  inspira- 
tion, but  in  their  hours  of  relaxation  they  can 
listen  to  another  voice  that  tells  of  indifference 
and  repose.  Out  of  the  ruin  of  past  ideals  no  new 
vision  of  human  spirituality  has  grown  as  yet,  and 
no  poet  has  arisen  to  stir  the  heart  to  higher  aspi- 
rations. Only  we  listen  in  our  uncertainty  to  this 
prophet  of  disillusion  and  doubt: 

Alike  for  those  who  for  To-day  prepare, 
And  those  that  after  some  To-morrow  stare, 

A  muezzin  from  the  Tower  of  Darkness  cries, 
"  Fools,  your  reward  is  neither  Here  nor  There." 

The  revelations  of  Devout  and  Learn'd 
Who  rose  before  us,  and  as  Prophets  burn'd, 

Are  all  but  Stories,  which,  awoke  from  Sleep, 
They  told  their  fellows,  and  to  Sleep  return'd. 

The  Rubdiydt  has  often  been  compared  with 
the  Epicurean  tone  of  the  De  Rerum  Natura,  and 


124  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

there  is  no  doubt  a  superficial  resemblance. 
"  This  too  I  have  seen:  how  that  men  recline  at 
table  cup  in  hand,  and  shadow  their  brows  with 
garlands,  and  how  they  cry  out  from  the  depth  of 
their  heart,  '  Brief  is  this  joy  for  feeble  men;  even 
now  it  has  been,  and  never  again  shall  we  call  it 
to  return,'  " — sang  Lucretius  to  the  Romans;  and 
to-day  we  read  in  English  verse: 

Then  to  the  Lip  of  this  poor  earthen  Urn 
I  lean'd  the  Secret  of  my  Life  to  learn  : 

And  Lip  to  Lip  it  murmur'd — "  While  you  live, 
Drink  ! — for,  once  dead,  you  never  shall  return." 

Yet  in  spirit  the  two  poems  are  quite  at  variance. 
The  work  of  Lucretius  is  but  a  new  faith  of  philo- 
sophy, of  the  dux  vita  Philosophia,  summoning 
men  to  put  away  their  vain,  disturbing  supersti- 
tious, and  to  conquer  for  themselves  a  better  and 
surer  peace  in  strenuous  thought;  it  is  at  the  last 
the  utterance  of  the  will  to  refrain  speaking  with 
all  the  stress  of  the  Roman  character.  Lucretius 
would  have  been  the  first  to  repudiate  the  indif- 
ferentism  of  the  Persian: 

Perplext  no  more  with  Human  or  Divine, 
To-morrow's  tangle  to  the  winds  resign, 
And  lose  your  fingers  in  the  tresses  of 
The  Cypress-slender  Minister  of  Wine. 

The  stanzas  of  the  Rubdiydt  announce  the  sur- 
render of  the  will  altogether;  they  speak  the  creed 
of  defeat,   and  have  little  in  common  with  the 


KIPLING   AND   FITZGERALD  1 25 

mysticism  —  if  I  may  use  that  ambiguous  word  — 
of  the  great  poets  of  England  and  antiquity. 

We  have  still  to  await  the  coming  of  the  true 
modern  poet,  who  shall  unite  the  virility  of  Kip- 
ling and  the  graceful  charm  of  Omar  with  a  yet 
deeper  note  of  insight  into  spiritual  truth  than  has 
been  vouchsafed  to  either.  Meanwhile  we  cannot 
but  admire  the  strange  fatality  that  has  linked  to- 
gether the  restless  rover  of  the  seven  seas  and  the 
gentle  "  Suffolk  dreamer"  in  their  fellowship  of 
fame. 


GEORGE  CRABBE 

It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  suppose  that  the  new 
edition  of  Crabbe  in  a  single  volume '  would  at 
last  bring  to  him  that  popularity  which  his  lover, 
FitzGerald,  laboured  so  insistently  to  create,  but 
any  such  hope  is  bound  to  be  frustrate.  Here  is, 
in  fact,  one  of  the  curiosities  of  literature:  that  a 
poet  who  has  been  admired  so  extravagantly  by 
the  wisest  of  England's  readers  should  fail,  I  do 
not  say  of  popularity,  but  even  of  recognition 
among  critics  and  historians.  For  certainly  no 
one  would  call  Crabbe  popular,  and  to  realise  the 
neglect  of  the  critics  we  need  only  turn  to  the 
most  sympathetic  study  of  the  poet  in  recent  years 
and  read  Professor  Woodberry's  opening  words: 
' '  We  have  done  with  Crabbe. ' '  Yet  to  Byron  this 
was  "  the  first  of  living  poets";  and  Byron's  epi- 
gram," Nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  the  best," — 
commonly  misquoted,  by  the  way, —  is  on  the  lips 
of  a  host  of  readers  who  have  never  so  much  as 
opened  a  volume  of  Crabbe' s  works.     Nor  was 

1  The  Life  and  Poetical  Works  of  George  Crabbe.  By 
bis  son.  A  new  and  complete  edition.  London  :  John 
Murray.  1901.  Imported  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
New  York. 

126 


GEORGE   CRABBE  127 

Byron  alone  among  the  great  men  of  that  period 
to  reverence  what  we  have  elected  to  forget.  On 
his  deathbed  Fox  called  for  Crabbe's  poems,  and 
in  the  sorrows  of  Phoebe  Dawson  found  consolation 
while  his  life  was  ebbing  away.  And  of  Scott  we 
are  told  that  these  same  poems  were  at  all  times 
more  frequently  in  his  hands  than  any  other  work 
except  Shakespeare,  and  that  during  his  last  days 
at  Abbotsford  the  only  books  he  asked  to  be  read 
aloud  to  him  were  his  Bible  and  his  Crabbe.  But 
the  true  worshipper  of  our  poet's  genius  was  that 
gentle  cynic  and  recluse,  Edward  FitzGerald. 
There  is  something  really  pathetic  in  FitzGerald's 
constant  lamentation  that  no  one  reads  his  "  eter- 
nal Crabbe. ' '  Our  English  Omar  at  least  is  popu- 
lar, and  it  looks  as  if  the  Suffolk  poet  were  to 
attain  a  kind  of  spurious  fame  from  the  way  his 
name  is  imbedded  in  the  letters  of  the  "  Suffolk 
dreamer. ' ' 

Now  it  is  superfluous  to  say  that  a  writer  who 
has  been  so  lauded  by  the  greatest  poet,  the  most 
ardent  orator,  the  most  honoured  novelist,  and 
the  most  refined  letter-writer  of  England  in  a 
century,  must  himself  have  possessed  extraordi- 
nary qualities.  Yet  it  remains  true  that  Crabbe 
is  not  read,  is  not  even  likely  to  be  much  read  for 
many  years  to  come;  and  the  reason  of  this  is  per- 
fectly simple:  his  excellences  lie  in  a  direction 
apart  from  the  trend  of  modern  thought  and  senti- 
ment, while  his  faults  are  such  as  most  strongly 
repel  modern  taste. 


128  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

As  for  the  faults  of  Crabbe,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  he  is  an  avowed  imitator  of  Pope  in  all  formal 
matters,  and  that  the  antithetic  style  of  the  master 
too  often  descends  in  him  to  a  grotesque  flaccidity. 
It  would  not  be  impossible  to  quote  a  dozen  lines 
almost  as  absurd  as  the  parody  in  Rejected  Ad- 
dresses : 

Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regained. 

But  even  where  his  style  is  wrought  with  nervous 
energy,  it  fails  to  attract  an  audience  who  have 
tasted  the  rapturous  liberties  of  Shelley  and  Keats, 
and  who  love  to  take  their  sentiment  copiously  in 
unrestrained  draughts.  They  do  not  see  that  the 
despised  heroic  couplet  permits  the  narrative  poet 
to  condense  into  a  pair  of  verses  the  insignificant 
joinings  of  a  tale  which  in  any  other  form  would 
occupy  a  paragraph;  nor  does  it  interest  them 
that  in  the  hands  of  a  moral  poet  the  couplet  is 
like  a  keen  two-edged  sword  to  strike  this  way 
and  that.  They  are  only  offended  by  what  seems 
to  them  the  monotonous  seesaw  of  the  rhythm; 
and  a  style  which  opposes  an  effort  of  the  judicial 
understanding  at  every  pause  in  the  flow  of  senti- 
ment repels  those  who  think  wit  (in  the  old  sense 
of  the  word)  a  poor  substitute  for  celestial  inspira- 
tion. It  is  partly  a  matter  of  psychology,  partly 
a  matter  of  inscrutable  taste,  that  a  generation  of 
readers  who  are  attracted  by  the  slipshod  rhythms 
of  EpipsychuUon  or  Endymion  should  find  the 
close-knit  periods  of  Crabbe  unendurable. 


GEORGE   CRABBE  129 

To  me  personally  there  is  no  tedium,  but  only 
endless  delight,  in  these  mated  rhymes  which 
seem  to  pervade  and  harmonise  the  whole  rhythm. 
And  withal  they  help  to  create  the  artistic  illusion, 
that  wonderful  atmosphere,  I  may  call  it,  which 
envelops  Crabbe's  world.  No  one,  not  even  the 
most  skeptical  of  Crabbe's  genius,  can  deny  that 
he  has  succeeded  in  giving  to  his  work  a  tone  or 
atmosphere  peculiarly  and  consistently  his  own. 
It  would  be  curious  to  study  this  question  of  at- 
mosphere in  literature,  and  determine  the  elements 
that  go  to  compose  it.  Why  are  the  works  of 
Dickens  or  Smollett  or  Spenser,  to  choose  almost 
at  random,  so  marked  by  a  distinctive  atmosphere, 
while  in  a  greater  writer,  in  Shakespeare  for  ex- 
ample, it  may  be  less  observable  ?  Something  of 
bulk  is  necessary  to  its  existence,  for  it  can  hardly 
be  created  by  a  single  book  or  a  single  poem.  A 
certain  consistency  of  tone  is  needed,  and  a  unity 
of  effect.  It  cannot  exist  without  perfect  sincerity 
in  the  writer;  and,  above  all,  there  is  required 
some  idiosyncrasy  of  genius,  some  peculiar  emo- 
tional or  intellectual  process  in  the  author's  mind, 
which  imposes  itself  on  us  so  powerfully  that 
when  we  arise  from  his  works  the  life  of  the  world 
no  longer  seems  quite  the  same  to  us;  for  we  have 
learned  to  see  the  quiet  fields  of  nature  and  the 
thronging  activities  of  mankind  through  a  new 
medium. 

All  these  qualities,  and  more  particularly  this 
individuality  of  vision,  pervade  Crabbe's  descrip- 


I30  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

tive  passages  and  his  portraits  of  men.  They 
colour  all  his  painting  of  inanimate  things,  but 
they  are  most  evident,  perhaps,  in  his  pictures  of 
the  sea,  whose  varied  aspects,  whether  sublime  or 
intimate,  seem  to  have  become,  through  early  as- 
sociation, a  part  of  his  sensitive  faculties.  He  has 
caught  the  real  life  of  the  sea,  its  calm  and  tem- 
pest or  sudden  change,  as  few  poets  in  English 
have  done.  Especially  he  loves  the  quiet  scenes, 
the  beach  when  the  tide  retires;  when  all  is  calm 
at  sea  and  on  land,  and  the  wonders  of  the  shore 
lie  glittering  in  the  sunlight  or  the  softer  light  of 
the  moon.  Even  more  characteristic  are  his  pic- 
tures of  the  muddy,  oozing  shallows,  as  in  that 
passage  where  the  dull  terrors  of  such  a  waste  are 
employed  to  heighten  the  most  tragic  of  his  Tales  : 

When  tides  were  neap,  and,  in  the  sultry  day, 
Through  the  tall  bounding  tnud-banks  made  their  way, 
Which  on  each  side  rose  swelling,  and  below 
The  dark  warm  flood  ran  silently  and  slow ; 
There  anchoring,  Peter  chose  from  man  to  hide, 
There  hang  his  head,  and  view  the  lazy  tide 
In  its  hot  slimy  channel  slowly  glide; 
Where  the  small  eels  that  left  the  deeper  way 
For  the  warm  shore,  within  the  shallows  play  ; 
Where  gaping  mussels,  left  upon  the  mud, 
Slope  their  slow  passage  to  the  fallen  flood  ; — 
Here  dull  and  hopeless  he  'd  lie  down  and  trace 
How  sidelong  crabs  had  scrawled  their  crooked  race, 
Or  sadly  listen  to  the  tuneless  cry 
Of  fishing  gull  or  clanging  golden-eye  ; 
What  time  the  sea-birds  to  the  marsh  would  come, 
And  the  loud  bittern,  from  the  bull-rush  home, 


GEORGE   CRABBE  131 

Gave  from  the  salt  ditch  side  the  bellowing  boom  : 
He  nursed  the  feelings  these  dull  scenes  produce, 
And  loved  to  stop  beside  the  opening  sluice ; 
Where  the  small  stream,  confined  in  narrow  bound, 
Ran  with  a  dull,  unvaried  sadd'uing  sound; 
Where  all,  presented  to  the  eye  or  ear, 
Oppressed  the  soul  with  misery,  grief,  and  fear. 

There,  if  anywhere  in  English,  is  the  artist's 
vision,  the  power  to  concentrate  the  mind  upon  a 
single  scene  until  every  detail  in  its  composition 
is  corroded  on  the  memory,  and  the  skill,  no  less 
important,  to  select  and  arrange  these  details  to  a 
clearly  conceived  end. 

These  lines  may  serve  to  exemplify  another 
trait  of  Crabbe's  genius,  the  rare  union  of  scien- 
tific detail  with  pervading  human  interest.  He 
was,  in  fact,  all  his  life  a  curious  and  exact  stu- 
dent of  botany  and  geology.  Even  in  his  old  age 
he  kept  up  these  scientific  pursuits,  and  his  son, 
in  the  excellent  biography,  tells  how  the  old  man 
on  his  visits  would  leave  the  house  every  morn- 
ing, rain  or  shine,  and  go  alone  to  the  quarries  to 
search  for  fossils  and  to  pick  up  rare  herbs  on  the 
wayside.  "The  dirty  fossils,"  says  the  dutiful 
son,  "were  placed  in  our  best  bedroom,  to  the 
great  diversion  of  the  female  part  of  my  family; 
the  herbs  stuck  in  the  borders,  among  my  choice 
flowers,  that  he  might  see  them  when  he  came 
again.  I  never  displaced  one  of  them, " — a  pretty 
picture  of  busy  eld.  Of  this  inanimate  lore  of 
plants  and  rocks  Crabbe  is  most  prodigal  in  his 
verse,  but,  by  some  true  gift  of  the  Muses,  it  never 


132  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

for  a  moment  obscures  the  human  interest  of  the 
narrative.  After  all,  it  was  man,  and  the  moral 
springs  in  man,  that  really  concerned  him.  As 
he  himself  says,  the  best  description  of  sea  or  river 
is  incomplete: 

But  when  a  happier  theme  succeeds,  and  when 
Men  are  our  subjects  and  the  deeds  of  men  ; 
Then  may  we  find  the  Muse  in  happier  style, 
And  we  may  sometimes  sigh  and  sometimes  smile. 

Even  when  he  submits  his  art  to  minute  descrip- 
tions, as  for  instance  to  a  study  of  the  growth  of 
lichens,  there  still  lurks  this  human  ethical  in- 
stinct behind  the  scientific  eye.  Read  in  their 
proper  place,  the  following  lines  are  but  a  little 
lesson  to  set  forth  the  associations  of  mortal 
antiquity: 

Seeds,  to  our  eyes  invisible,  will  find 
On  the  rude  rock  the  bed  that  fits  their  kind  ; 
There,  in  the  rugged  soil,  they  safely  dwell, 
Till  showers  and  snows  the  subtle  atoms  swell, 
And  spread  the  enduring  foliage  ; — then  we  trace 
The  freckled  flower  upon  the  flinty  base  ; 
These  all  increase,  till  in  unnoticed  years 
The  stony  tower  as  grey  with  age  appears ; 
With  coats  of  vegetation,  thinly  spread, 
Coat  above  coat,  the  living  on  the  dead : 
These  then  dissolve  to  dust,  and  make  a  way 
For  bolder  foliage,  nursed  by  their  decay  ; 
The  long-enduring  Ferns  in  time  will  all 
Die  and  depose  their  dust  upon  the  wall ; 
Where  the  winged  seed  may  rest,  till  many  a  flower 
Show  Flora's  triumph  o'er  the  falling  tower. 


GEORGE   CRABBE  I  33 

I  choose  these  lines  for  citation  because  they 
form,  perhaps,  the  most  purely  descriptive  pas- 
sage in  Crabbe;  and  even  here  it  is  really  the 
association  of  generations  of  mankind  with  an 
ancient  house  of  worship  that  stirs  the  poet's  feel- 
ings. For  pieces  of  greater  scope  one  should  go 
to  such  pictures  as  the  ocean  tempest  in  The 
Borough,  which  I  would  not  spoil  by  quoting  in- 
complete. In  his  study  of  the  Roman  decadent 
poets,  M.  Nisard  has  made  an  elaborate  compari- 
son of  the  storm  scenes  in  the  Odyssey,  the  ALneid, 
and  the  Pharsalia,  showing  the  regular  increase 
from  Homer  down  of  descriptive  matter  added  for 
merely  picturesque  effect,  apart  from  its  connec- 
tion with  the  human  action  involved.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  find  a  better  example  of  extended 
description  completely  fused  with  human  interest 
than  this  tempest  in  The  Borough.  Every  detail 
of  that  animated  picture  is  interpreted  through 
human  activity  and  emotion.  This  does  not  mean 
that  Crabbe's  attitude  toward  nature  is  that  of  an 
emotional  pantheism  which  uses  the  outer  world 
as  a  mere  symbol  of  the  soul.  Very  far  from  that : 
the  human  emotions  are  in  this  passage  the  direct 
outcome  of  a  sharply  defined  natural  occurrence. 
In  another  scene,  one  that  has  achieved  a  kind  of 
fame  among  critics,  he  tells  the  story,  in  his  quiet, 
satirical  manner,  of  a  lover  who  goes  a  journey  to 
meet  his  beloved.  The  lover's  way  leads  him 
over  a  barren  heath  and  a  sandy  road,  but.  in  his 
state  of  exalted  expectation,  everything  that  meets 


134  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

his  eye  is  charged  with  loveliness.  At  last  he  ar- 
rives only  to  find  his  mistress  has  gone  away, — 
gone,  as  he  thinks,  to  see  a  rival.  He  follows 
her,  and  now  his  way  takes  him 

by  a  river's  side, 
Inland  and  winding,  smooth,  and  full,  and  wide, 
That  rolled  majestic  on,  in  one  soft-flowing  tide  ; 
The  bottom  gravel,  flowery  were  the  banks, 
Tall  willows  waving  in  their  broken  ranks ; 
The  road,  now  near,  now  distant,  winding  led 
By  lovely  meadows  which  the  waters  fed. 

But  all  is  hideous  to  his  jealous  eye.  "  I  hate 
these  scenes!  "  he  cries: 

I  hate  these  long  green  lanes ;  there  's  nothing  seen 
In  this  vile  country  but  eternal  green. 

All  this  is  the  furthest  possible  remove  from 
vague  reverie;  it  is  a  bit  of  amusing  psychology, 
tending  to  distinguish  more  sharply  between  man 
and  nature  rather  than  to  blend  them  in  any  haze 
of  symbolism. 

It  may  be  imagined  from  Crabbe's  power  over 
details  that  he  should  excel  in  another  sort  of  de- 
scription, in  scenes  of  still  life,  which  come  even 
closer  to  the  affairs  of  humanity;  and,  indeed, 
there  are  scattered  through  his  poems  little  genre 
pictures  that  for  minuteness  and  accuracy  can  be 
likened  only  to  the  masterpieces  of  Dutch  art  in 
that  kind.  The  locus  classicus  (if  such  a  term  may 
be  used  of  so  unfamiliar  a  poet)  of  this  genre  writ- 


GEORGE   CRABBE  I 35 

ing  is  the  section  of  The  Borough  that  describes 
the  dwellings  of  the  poor.  I  cannot  refrain  from 
quoting  a  few  of  the  introductory  lines  to  show 
how  skilfully  he  prepares  the  mind  for  the  picture 
that  is  to  succeed : 

There,  fed  by  food  they  love,  to  rankest  size, 
Around  the  dwellings,  docks  and  wormwood  rise  ; 
Here  the  strong  mallow  strikes  her  slimy  root, 
Here  the  dull  nightshade  hangs  her  deadly  fruit ; 
On  hills  of  dust  the  henbane's  faded  green 
And  pencilled  flower  of  sickly  scent  is  seen. 

And  this  is  the  poet  who  has  been  censured  for 
lack  of  descriptive  powers  !  Of  the  scene  that  fol- 
lows,— the  "  long  boarded  building,"  with  one 
vast  room,  where  the  degraded  families  of  the  out- 
cast are  huddled  together, — no  selection  can  con- 
vey anything  but  the  most  inadequate  impression; 
it  must  be  read  intact,  and  once  read  it  will  cling 
to  the  memory  forever.  Here,  at  least,  is  a  bit 
that  is  as  vivid  as  a  picture  by  Van  Ostade,  or 
Teniers: 

On  swinging  shelf  are  things  incongruous  stored, — 
Scraps  of  their  food, — the  cards  and  cribbage-board, — 
With  pipes  and  pouches  ;  while  on  peg  below, 
Hang  a  lost  member's  fiddle  and  its  bow  ; 
That  still  reminds  them  how  he  'd  dance  and  play, 
Ere  sent  untimely  to  the  Convicts'  Bay. 

It  must  be  clear  even  from  these  imperfect  selec- 
tions that  Crabbe  was  able  to  envelop  his  inani- 
mate world  with  an  atmosphere  peculiar  to  his 


136  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

own  genius.  As  for  the  human  beings  that  move 
through  his  scenes,  if  one  were  given  to  compari- 
sons, he  would  probably  liken  them  to  the  people 
of  Dickens.  The  comparison  is  apt  both  for  its 
accuracy  and  its  limitations.  The  world  of  Crabbe 
is  on  the  surface  much  like  that  of  Dickens,  but 
examined  more  closely  it  is  seen  to  be  less  per- 
vaded with  humour,  and  more  with  wit;  its  pa- 
thos, too,  is  less  pungent  and  firmer,  and  its  moral 
tone  is  quite  diverse.  Save  in  his  later  Tales  of 
the  Hall, — which,  after  all,  are  scarcely  an  excep- 
tion to  the  rule, — the  characters  in  Crabbe's  poems 
are  taken  from  the  ranks  of  the  humble  and  poor; 
they  are  in  external  appearance  the  L,ondon  folk 
of  Dickens  transferred  to  the  country.  But  they 
rarely  ever  descend,  like  Dickens's  portraits,  into 
caricature,  for  the  reason  that  their  divergencies 
grow  more  from  some  inner  guiding  moral  trait, 
and  are  less  the  mere  outward  distinctions  of  trick 
and  manner.  They  are,  too,  more  directly  the  out- 
come of  divergent  individual  will;  they  are,  for 
this  reason,  more  perfectly  rounded  out  in  their 
personality,  and  they  bear  with  them  a  more 
complete  sense  of  moral  responsibility  for  their 
associations. 

We  are  carried  to  the  green  lanes  and  sandy 
shores  of  England,  but  it  is  not  the  land  of  oid  po- 
etic illusions.  Here  are  no  scenes  of  idyllic  peace^ 
no  Corydons  murmuring  liquid  love  to  Phyllis  or 
Neaera  in  the  shade.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that 
the  orthodox  pastoral  dreams  are  without  justi- 


GEORGE   CRABBE  I  37 

fication,  for  that  would  be  to  condemn  the  central 
theme  of  Paradise  Lost,  not  to  mention  a  host  of 
minor  poems  justly  beloved.  But  certainly  these 
dreams  lie  perilously  near  to  mavvkishness  and  in- 
sincerity, and  if  for  no  other  reason  we  could  ad- 
mire Crabbe  for  his  manly  resistance  to  their  easy 
allurements.  It  seems  that  he  set  himself  delib- 
erately to  ridicule  and  rebuke  the  common  vapid- 
ities of  that  facile  school.  In  those  introductory 
lines  to  The  Village,  notable  chiefly  because  they 
were  tampered  with  by  Dr.  Johnson,  he  directly 
satirises  the  poets — and  his  master,  Pope,  was  in 
youth  one  of  the  worst  sinners  in  this  respect  — 
who  imitate  Virgil  rather  than  nature.  He  too 
had  sought  the  sweet  peace  and  smiling  resigna- 
tion of  rural  life,  but  instead  he  had  found  only 
the  cry  of  universal  labour  and  contention : 

Here,  wandering  loug,  amid  these  frowning  fields, 
I  sought  the  simple  life  that  Nature  yields  ; 
Rapine  and  Wrong  and  Fear  usurped  her  place, 
And  a  bold,  artful,  surly,  savage  race. 

An  atmosphere  of  gloom  is,  indeed,  over 
Crabbe' s  human  world;  not  moroseness  or  morbid 
sentimentality,  but  a  note  of  stern  judicial  pity  for 
the  frailties  and  vices  of  the  men  he  knew  and  por- 
trayed. His  own  early  life  in  a  miserable  fishing 
hamlet  on  the  Suffolk  coast,  under  a  hard  father, 
his  starving  years  of  literary  apprenticeship  in 
London,  and  then  for  a  time  the  salt  bread  of 
dependency  as  private  chaplain  to  the  Duke  of 


138  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Rutland,  acquainted  hiin  with  many  sorrows 
which  years  of  comparative  prosperity  could  not 
entirely  obliterate.  He  is  at  bottom  a  true  Calvin- 
ist,  showing  that  peculiar  form  of  fatalism  which 
still  finds  it  possible  to  magnify  the  free  will,  and 
to  avoid  the  limp  surrender  of  determinism.  Man- 
kind as  a  body  lies  under  a  fatal  burden  of  suffer- 
ing and  toil,  because  as  a  body  men  are  depraved 
and  turn  from  righteousness;  but  to  the  individ- 
ual man  there  always  remains  open  a  path  up 
from  darkness  into  light,  a  way  out  of  condemna- 
tion into  serene  peace.  And  it  is  with  this  mix- 
ture of  judicial  aloofness  and  hungering  sympathy 
that  Crabbe  dwells  on  the  sadness  of  long  and 
hopeless  waiting,  the  grief  of  broken  love,  the  re- 
morse of  wasted  opportunities,  the  burden  of  pov- 
erty, the  solitude  of  failure,  which  run  like  dark 
threads  through  most  of  his  Tales.  And  in  one 
poem,  at  least,  he  has  attained  the  full  tragic 
style  with  an  intensity  and  singleness  cf  effect 
that  rank  him  among  the  few  master  poets  of  hu- 
man passion.  The  story  of  Peter  Gri7nes  —  his 
abuse  of  his  old  father,  his  ill-treatment  of  the 
workhouse  lads  brought  from  London,  and  his 
final  madness  and  death  —  is  the  most  powerful 
tragedy  of  remorse  in  the  English  language.  I 
have  already  quoted  the  picture  of  the  desolate 
shallows  and  "  the  lazy  tide  in  its  hot  slimy  chan- 
nel "  where  the  wretch  sought  to  hide  his  guilt; 
but  not  less  perfect  in  its  art  is  Peter's  own  story 
of  the  three  lonely  reaches  in  the  river  where  the 


GEORGE   CRABBE 


'39 


images  of  his  victims  used  to  rise  up  and  haunt 
his  vision: 

"  There  were  three  places,  where  they  ever  rose, — 
The  whole  long  river  has  not  such  as  those, — 
Places  accursed,  where,  if  a  man  remain, 
He  '11  see  the  things  which  strike  him  to  the  brain  ; 
And  there  they  made  me  on  my  paddle  lean, 
And  look  at  them  for  hours; — accursed  scene  !  " 

Then  madness  struck  into  his  soul : 

"In  one  fierce  summer-day,  when  my  poor  brain 
Was  burning  hot,  and  cruel  was  my  pain, 
Then  came  this  father-foe,  and  there  he  stood 
With  his  two  boys  again  upon  the  flood  : 
There  was  more  mischief  in  their  eyes,  more  glee 
In  their  pale  faces,  when  they  glared  at  me : 
Still  they  did  force  me  on  the  oar  to  rest, 
And  when  they  saw  me  fainting  and  oppressed, 
He  with  his  hand,  the  old  man,  scooped  the  flood, 
And  there  came  flame  about  him  mixed  with  blood; 
He  bade  me  stoop  and  look  upon  the  place, 
Then  flung  the  hot-red  liquor  in  my  face  ; 
Burning  it  blazed,  and  then  I  roared  for  pain, 
I  thought  the  demons  would  have  turned  my  brain." 

But  if  the  atmosphere  of  these  poems  is  sombre, 
that  does  not  mean  they  are  without  brighter 
glimpses  of  joy.  As  he  himself  expresses  it,  they 
are  relieved  by  ' '  gleams  of  transient  mirth  and 
hours  of  sweet  repose."  In  fact,  Crabbe  has  con- 
trived to  include  a  vast  number  of  human  inter- 
ests and  passions  in  these  simple  Tales.  There 
are  pages  of  literary  satire  on  the  Gothic  romances 
of  the  day,  more  neatly  executed  even  than  North- 
anger  Abbey.     There  are  poems,  like  the  second 


140  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

letter  of  The  Borough,  overflowing  with  tender 
sentiment;  tales  such  as  Phccbe  Dawson,  where 
the  pathos  is  almost  too  painful  to  be  easily  sup- 
ported. There  are  stories  of  quaint  playfulness, 
like  The  Frank  Courtship.  Humour,  too,  is  not 
wanting,  and  now  and  then  comes  a  stroke  of 
memorable  wit.  Jealousy,  ambition,  pride,  van- 
ity, despair,  and  all  the  petty  tyrannies  of  con- 
ceit are  set  off  with  marvellous  acuteness.  Even 
abounding  joy  is  not  absent.  I  do  not  know  but 
the  sense  of  charm,  of  homely  intimate  life,  of 
tranquil  resignation,  is,  for  all  their  dark  colours, 
the  final  impression  of  these  Talcs.  And  every- 
where they  show  the  delightful  gift  of  the  story- 
teller. Each  separate  poem  is  a  miniature  novel 
wrought  out  with  unflagging  zest  and  almost  im- 
peccable art.  The  story  of  the  younger  brother 
in  Tales  of  the  Hall  glows  again  with  "  the  sober 
certainty  of  waking  bliss ' ' ;  and  the  older  brother's 
history  begins  with  a  rapturous  tide  of  romantic 
dreaming  that  fairly  sings  and  pulses  with  beauty. 
The  whole  of  this  second  story  is,  in  fact,  a  liter- 
ary masterpiece,  for  its  scenes  of  joy,  followed  by 
despondency  and  heroic  forbearance,  controlled 
throughout  by  the  unerring  psychological  instinct 
of  the  poet. 

But  this  unerring  instinct  is  not  confined  to  any 
one  tale  ;  it  guides  the  poet  in  the  creation  of  all 
his  multitudinous  characters.  At  first,  perhaps, 
as  we  see  the  ethical  motives  that  underlie  a  char- 
acter so  clearly  defined,  it  seems  the  poet  is  deal- 


GEORGE   CRABBE  I4I 

ing  merely  with  a  moral  type  ;  but  suddenly  some 
little  limitation  is  thrown  in,  some  modification  of 
motive,  which  changes  the  character  from  a  cold 
abstraction  to  a  living  and  unmistakable  person- 
ality. Crabbe  has  been  called  a  realist,  and  in  one 
sense  the  term  is  appropriate  ;  but  in  the  meaning 
commonly  given  to  the  word  it  is  singularly  inept. 
The  inner  moral  springs  of  character  are  what  first 
interested  him,  and  his  keen  perception  of  man- 
ners and  environment  only  serves  to  save  him  from 
the  coldness  of  eighteenth-century  abstractions. 

I  have  dwelt  at  length  on  these  phases  of 
Crabbe' s  work  which  would  strike  even  a  casual 
reader,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  the  casual 
reader  in  his  case  scarcely  exists.  The  real  prob- 
lem, as  I  have  already  intimated,  is  to  explain 
why  a  poet  of  such  great,  almost  supreme  powers 
should  fail  to  preserve  a  place  in  the  memory  of  crit- 
ics, not  to  mention  his  lack  of  a  popular  audience. 
His  failure  is  due  in  part,  no  doubt,  to  the  use  of 
a  metrical  form  which  we  choose  to  contemn,  but 
chiefly  it  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he  is  at  once  of  us 
and  not  of  us.  His  presentation  of  the  world  is 
in  spirit  essentially  modern,  so  that  we  do  not 
grant  him  the  indulgence  unconsciously  allowed 
to  poets  who  describe  a  different  form  of  society, 
and  whose  appeal  to  us  is  impersonal  and  general; 
while  at  the  same  time  he  ignores  or  even  derides 
what  has  become  the  primary  emotion  we  desire 
in  our  literary  favourites.  Since  the  advent  of 
Shelley   and  Wordsworth    and   the  other  great 


142  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

contemporaries  of  Crabbe  our  attitude  toward  na- 
ture has  altered  profoundly.  We  demand  of  the 
poet  a  minute,  almost  a  scientific  acquaintance 
with  the  obscurer  beasts  and  flowers ;  but  still 
more  we  demand,  if  the  poet  is  to  receive  our 
deeper  admiration,  a  certain  note  of  mysticism,  a 
feeling  of  some  vast  and  indefinable  presence 
beyond  the  finite  forms  described,  a  lurking  sense 
of  pantheism  by  which  the  personality  of  the  ob- 
server seems  to  melt  into  what  he  observes  or  is 
swallowed  up  in  a  vague  reverie.  When  we  think 
of  the  great  nature-passages  of  the  century,  we 
are  apt  to  recall  the  solemn  mysteries  of  Words- 
worth's Tintern  Abbey  or  Shelley's  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind.  Even  in  poets  who  are  not  frankly 
of  the  romantic  school,  and  who  are  imbued  with 
the  classical  spirit,  the  same  undercurrent  of  rev- 
erie is  heard.  Matthew  Arnold's  verse  is  full 
of  these  subtle  echoes.  It  may  be  caused  by  a 
tide  of  reminiscence  which  dulls  the  sharpness  of 
present  impressions,  as  in  so  simple  a  line  as  this  : 

Lone  Daulis  aud  the  high  Cephissian  vale; 

or  it  may  be  present  because  the  words  are  over- 
freighted with  reflection,  as  in  the  closing  lines  of 

The  Future  ; 

As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him, 

As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away, 

As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea  ; — 

but  everywhere  this  note  of  reverie  runs  through 


GEORGE   CRABBE  143 

the  greater  modern  poets.  Now  of  science  Crabbe 
owned  more  than  a  necessary  share,  but  for 
reverie,  for  symbolism,  for  mystic  longings  to- 
ward the  infinite,  he  had  no  sense  whatever.  It 
is  quite  true,  as  Goethe  declared,  that  a  "  sense 
of  infinitude  "  is  the  mark  of  high  poetry,  and  I 
firmly  believe  that  the  absence  of  this  sense  is  the 
one  thing  that  shuts  Crabbe  out  of  the  company 
of  the  few  divinely  inspired  singers, — the  few  who 
bring  to  us  gleanings  from  their  ' '  commerce  with 
the  skies,"  to  use  old  Ovid's  phrase.  But  it  is 
also  true  that  this  sense  of  infinitude  as  it  speaks 
in  Homer  and  Shakespeare  is  something  far  more 
sober  and  rational  than  the  musings  of  the  modern 
spirit,  —  something  radically  different  from  the 
ecstatic  rhapsodies  of  Shelley's  Promethetis  Un- 
bound;  and  Crabbe's  very  limitations  lend  to  his 
verse  a  brave  manliness,  a  clean  good  sense,  that 
tone  up  the  mind  of  the  reader  like  a  strong  cordial. 
And  there  is  the  same  difference  in  Crabbe's 
treatment  of  humanity.  Wordsworth,  feeling  this 
difference,  was  led  to  speak  slightingly  of  Crabbe's 
"  unpoetical  mode  of  considering  human  nature 
and  society."  His  repulsion  may  be  attributed  in 
part  to  Crabbe's  constant  use  of  a  form  of  analysis 
which  checks  the  unconstrained  flow  of  the  emo- 
tions ;  but  the  chasm  between  the  two  is  deeper 
than  that.  Wordsworth  was  ready  to  ridicule 
the  sham  idyllic  poetry  as  freely  as  Crabbe  or  any 
other ;  but,  at  bottom,  are  not  Michael  and  the 
Leech-gatherery  and  a  host  of  others  that  move 


144  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

through  Wordsworth's  scenes,  the  true  successors 
of  the  Corydons  and  Damons  that  dance  under 
the  trees  on  the  old  idyllic  swards  ?  In  place  of 
pastoral  dreams  of  peace  we  hear  now  "  the  still, 
sad  music  of  humanity."  Yet  it  is  the  same 
humanity  considered  as  a  whole ;  humanity  be- 
trayed by  circumstances  and  corrupted  by  luxury, 
but  needing  only  the  freedom  of  the  hills  and 
lakes  to  develop  its  native  virtues ;  humanity 
caught  up  in  some  tremulous  vision  of  harmony 
with  the  universal  world;  it  is,  in  short,  the  vague 
aspiration  of  what  we  have  called  humanitarian- 
ism,  and  have  endowed  with  the  solemnities  of  a 
religion.  If  this  is  necessary  to  poetry,  Crabbe 
is  undoubtedly  "  unpoetical."  In  him  there  is  no 
thought  of  a  perfect  race  made  corrupt  by  luxury, 
no  vision  of  idyllic  peace,  no  musing  on  humanity 
as  an  abstraction,  but  always  a  sturdy  understand- 
ing of  the  individual  man  reaping  the  fruits  of  his 
own  evil-doing  or  righteousness;  his  interest  is  in 
the  individual  will,  never  in  the  problem  of  classes. 
His  sharply  defined  sense  of  man's  personal  re- 
sponsibility coincides  with  his  lack  of  reverent 
enthusiasm  toward  nature  as  an  abstract  idea,  and 
goes  to  create  that  unusual  atmosphere  about  his 
works  which  repels  the  modern  sentimentalist.  So 
it  happens,  we  think,  that  he  can  appeal  strongly 
to  only  a  few  readers  of  peculiar  culture;  for  it  is 
just  the  province  of  culture  or  right  education — 
is  it  not  ? — that  it  shall  train  the  mind  to  breathe 
easily  an  atmosphere  foreign  to  its  native  habit. 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

When  a  novelist's  works  come  to  us  in  a  new 
edition,  revised  and  complete,  it  is  time  to  con- 
sider him  seriously  as  one  whose  task  is  accom- 
plished, and  to  ask  what  place  he  holds  in  the 
history  of  fiction  ;  and  such  a  consideration  may 
seem  in  an  especial  manner  timely  in  the  case  of 
an  author  like  George  Meredith,1  whose  novels 
have  elicited  such  extravagant  praise  and  such 
sweeping  condemnation  from  different  readers. 
Indeed,  I  know  of  nothing  much  more  discourag- 
ing than  to  read  in  succession  the  various  reviews 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  works.  There  appears  to  be  no 
middle  ground  between  the  homage  of  R.  L,. 
Stevenson,  to  whom  Rhoda  Fleming  was  "  the 
strongest  thing  in  English  letters  since  Shake- 
speare died,"  and  the  equally  excessive  detraction 
of  William  Watson,  who  has  put  on  record  his 
impression  of  The  Egoist  as  being  ' '  the  most  en- 
tirely wearisome  book  purporting  to  be  a  novel 
that "  he  had  "ever  toiled  through  in  "  his  "life." 
And  withal  few  or  none  of  these  critics  have 
deemed  it  necessary  to  give  a  rational  explana- 

1  The  Works  of  George  Meredith.    16  vols.    New  York  : 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1898. 
vol.  11. — IO. 

145 


I46  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

tion  of  their  opinions.  One  asks  in  amazement 
whether  the  judgment  is  utterly  and  forever  to  be 
excluded  from  criticism  by  this  kind  of  irresponsi- 
ble impressionism. 

Probably  the  first  characteristic  of  these  novels 
to  attract  the  attention  of  even  the  most  heedless 
reader  is  the  peculiar  language  employed,  one 
might  almost  say,  with  malice  prepense.  "  Our 
language  is  not  rich  in  subtleties  for  prose.  A 
writer  who  is  not  servile,  and  has  insight,  must 
coin  from  his  own  mint."  So  Mr.  Meredith 
states  his  case,  and  it  must  be  admitted  he  has 
coined  with  a  liberal  hand,  not  so  much  in  the 
formation  of  new  words, —  though  he  is  apt  to 
prefer  a  strange  word  to  a  common  one, — as  in 
his  distortion  of  language  in  order  to  surcharge  it 
with  thought  and  sensation.  It  is  perhaps  this 
peculiarity  of  style  that  led  an  eminent  critic  to 
declare  his  chief  fault  was  inability  to  tell  a  story, 
— rather  a  grave  charge  against  a  story-teller,  if  it 
could  be  substantiated.  The  construction  of  a 
plot  like  that  of  Evan  Harriyigton  may  be  suffi- 
cient answer  to  such  a  charge,  but  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  refute  the  censure  of  over-cleverness  to  which 
his  pointed  style  lays  him  open. 

Mr.  Meredith  alludes  more  than  once  to  his  own 
philosophic  intentions,  and  speaks  with  some  irri- 
tation of  the  necessity  of  disguising  his  deeper 
meaning  for  fear  of  seeming  obscure.  We  fancy, 
however,  that  it  is  not  profundity  of  reflection  on 
human  life  which  causes  obscurity  so  much  as  the 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  147 

refraction  of  this  into  innumerable  burning  points. 
And  herein  lies  much  of  the  difference  between 
real  depth  and  mere  cleverness.  In  any  true 
sense  of  the  word  there  is  as  much  depth  of  re- 
flection in  Henry  Esmond  as  in  The  Egoist ;  but 
the  earlier  novel  is  less  obscure,  because  the 
thought  is  presented  in  broad  masses,  so  to  speak, 
which  rest  the  mind  while  stimulating  it,  whereas 
The  Egoist  confuses  with  its  endless  clashing  epi- 
grams. Mr.  Meredith,  like  his  own  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart,  is  "mad  for  cleverness,"  and  does  not  stop 
often  enough  to  remember  his  judgment  on  Sir 
Austin  Feverel :  "A  maker  of  proverbs — what  is 
he  but  a  narrow  mind,  the  mouthpiece  of  a  nar- 
rower ?  "  and,  "  A  proverb  is  a  halfway  house  to 
an  idea,  I  conceive. ' '  Now,  although  the  highest 
culture  must  always  demand  more  repose  of  mind 
than  an  epigrammatist  can  offer,  yet  the  flippant 
public  is  readily  caught  b3^  a  superficial  sparkling 
cleverness,  as  recent  popular  novels  sufficiently 
attest,  and  Mr.  Meredith  might  be  expected  to 
attract  such  an  audience,  were  it  not  for  one  grave 
defect.  His  cleverness  is  sparkling,  but  it  is  by 
no  means  superficial,  and  such  cleverness  does 
not  make  easy  reading.  Mr.  McCarthy,  one  of 
his  admirers,  has  said  of  the  novels  that  "a  man 
or  woman  must  be  really  in  earnest  to  care  much 
about  them  at  all."  Really,  our  author  seems  to 
be  caught  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea. 
Yet  criticise  his  style  as  .you  will,  there  is  after  all 
a  note  of  sincerity  in  it,  something  so  naturally 


148  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

artificial,  if  the  paradox  may  be  pardoned,  that 
we  are  prone  to  overlook  its  extravagances,  and 
can  even  appreciate  its  fascination  for  certain 
minds.  It  may  be  pretty  well  characterised  in  his 
own  words  as  ' '  the  puffing  of  a  giant ;  a  strong 
wind  rather  than  speech." 

To  Stevenson,  Meredith's  is  the  only  conversa- 
tion   since   Shakespeare.     It  is  a  little   hard  to 
understand  Stevenson's  unreasoning  enthusiasm 
for  an  author  who  is  in  every  respect  a  direct  con- 
trast to  him,— a  contrast  nowhere  more  apparent 
than  in  the  dialogue  of  these  novels.     Mr.  Mere- 
dith's characters  all  talk  Meredith  ;  they  are  all 
epigrammatic,  and  all  his  fools  are  wits.     This 
might  perhaps  be  pardoned,   if  our  author  had 
only  learned  from  Shakespeare  the  further  art  of 
making  his  fools  witty  and  natural  at  the  same 
time  ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Meredith 
too  often  employs  language  so  artificial  as  entirely 
to  destroy  the  illusion.     In  one  respect,  however, 
he  has  been  led  by  his  oblique  method  of  thought 
into  a  false  kind  of  realism  which  a  deeper  sense 
of  art  would  have  corrected.     He  says  of  one  of 
his  characters  that  "  she  had  not  uttered  words, 
she  had  shed  meanings  " ;  and  this  is  an  admirable 
description  of  much  of  his  conversation.     To  be 
sure,  in  real  life  we  are  apt  to  leave  our  thoughts 
half  expressed,  or  even  to  say  one  thing  while  an- 
other thought  is  in  our  mind;  but  the  artist  should 
remember  that  in  actual  conversation  there  are, 
besides  words,  a  hundred  ways  of  conveying  our 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  149 

meaning  which  the  printed  page  cannot  employ. 
To  produce  the  same  impression,  the  novelist's 
language  must  necessarily  be  fuller  and  more  ex- 
plicit than  is  needed  in  life,  and  true  realism 
should  recognise  this  difference.  Generally  Mr. 
Meredith  leaves  his  readers  to  gather  this  under- 
current of  thought  as  best  they  ma3r,  but  in  one 
place  he  has  been  kind  enough  to  add  a  comment 
to  the  dialogue,  which  sets  in  so  clear  a  light  this 
troublesome  source  of  obscurity  that  I  am  tempted 
to  quote  the  passage  in  full,  though  it  has  already 
been  used  for  the  same  purpose.  This  conversa- 
tion, then,  between  Rhoda  Fleming  and  Robert 
Eccles  proceeds  as  follows: 

"I've  always  thought  you  were  born  to  be  a  lady." 
(You  had  that  ambition,  young  madam.) 

She  answered:  "That's   what  I   don't  understand." 
(Your  saying  it,  O  my  friend  !) 

"  You  will  soon  take  to  your  new  duties."     (You  have 
small  objection  to  them  even  now.) 

"  Yes,  or  my  life  won't  be  worth  much."     (Know,  that 
you  are  driving  me  to  it.) 

"  And  I  wish  you  happiness,  Rhoda."     (You  are  madly 
imperilling  the  prospect  thereof.) 

To  each  of  them  the  second  meaning  stood  shadowy 
behind  the  utterances.     And  further, — 

"  Thank  you,  Robert."     (I  shall  have  to  thank  you  for 
the  issue.) 

"  Now  it 's  time  to  part."     (Do  you  not  see  that  there 
is  a  danger  for  me  in  remaining  ?) 

"Good-night."     (Behold,  I  am  submissive.) 

"  Good-night,  Rhoda."     (You  were  the  first  to  give  the 
signal  of  parting.) 


I50  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

"  Good-night."     (I  am  simply  submissive.) 

"  Why  not  my  name  ?     Are  you  hurt  with  me  ?  " 

Rhoda  choked.  The  indirectness  of  speech  had  been  a 
shelter  to  her,  permitting  her  to  hint  at  more  than  she 
dared  clothe  in  words. 

Again  the  delicious  dusky  rose  glowed  between  his 
eyes. 

But  he  had  put  his  hand  out  to  her,  and  she  had  not 
taken  it. 

"What  have  I  done  to  offend  you?  I  really  don't 
know,  Rhoda." 

"  Nothing."     The  flower  had  closed. 

Here  as  so  often  Mr.  Meredith  has  himself  fur- 
nished the  means  of  criticising  him.  Indeed,  it 
would  be  quite  practicable  to  compose  a  full  re- 
view of  his  work  by  forming  a  cento  of  phrases 
from  his  own  pen.  The  conversation  just  quoted 
has  been  commended  for  its  high  realism,  and  the 
praise  is  not  undeserved  ;  but  unfortunately  the 
volumes  are  packed  with  dialogue  of  this  oblique 
character,  where  there  is  no  comment  added  to 
guide  the  bewildered  reader.  The  intellectual 
labour  required  for  such  writing  is  prodigious  ; 
the  pity  of  it  is  that  simpler  language  would  be  a 
higher  form  of  realism,  because  truer  to  life  as  life 
must  be  expressed  through  the  novelist's  artistic 
medium.  It  is  in  the  larger  sense  an  error  of 
style,  the  same  error  which  has  led  him  to  break 
up  his  thought  into  points,  and  leave  the  tedium 
of  the  intellect  everywhere  disagreeably  manifest. 
I  have  called  it  the  substitution  of  cleverness  for 
true  wisdom  ;    and  if  Mr.    Meredith   stands   far 


GEORGE   MEREDITH  151 

above  the  ordinary  shrewd  writer  of  the  day,  it 
is  because  he  is  genuinely  clever  where  others 
only  strive  to  be  so.  In  the  end  we  are  tempted 
once  more  to  turn  against  him  his  own  weapon 
of  attack,  and  quote  from  The  Egoist :  "  You  see 
how  easy  it  is  to  deceive  one  who  is  an  artist  in 
phrases.  Avoid  them,  Miss  Dale ;  they  dazzle 
the  penetration  of  the  composer.  That  is  why 
people  of  ability  like  Mrs.  Mountstuart  see  so 
little  ;  they  are  so  bent  on  describing  brilliantly." 
One  cannot  help  remarking,  in  this  connection, 
how  few  of  our  English  novel-writers  are  great  as 
stylists.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  any  other 
class  of  authors  —  essayists,  historians,  divines, 
and  even  philosophers — can  boast  a  greater  num- 
ber of  avowed  masters  of  language.  Fielding  has 
a  strong  virile  style,  but  lacks  charm  and  grace  ; 
Sterne  is  exquisite  but  capricious  ;  Jane  Austen's 
language  is  as  limpid  as  still  water,  and  occasion- 
ally as  biting  as  acid,  but  fails  in  compass  ;  Haw- 
thorne's style  is  perfect  for  romance,  but  scarcely 
flexible  enough  for  an  ordinary  novelist's  use. 
Perhaps  Thackeray  alone  can  be  accounted  a 
master  in  word-craft,  and  certainly  Meredith  is 
not  the  least  peccant  among  the  brotherhood. 
For  one  who  desires  to  penetrate  into  the  secrets 
of  the  art,  I  suppose  no  better  course  could  be 
adopted  than  the  careful  study  of  two  books, 
Henry  Esmond  and  Castiglione's  //  Cortegia?w  : 
the  former  being  the  most  perfect  specimen 
among  English  novels  of  the  science  of  writing  as 


152  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

cuuuingly  defined  by  the  Italian.  I  was  amazed, 
recently,  to  find  that  not  a  single  copy  of  Castig- 
lione's  famous  work  was  discoverable  in  a  city  of 
six  hundred  thousand  inhabitants  ;  and  indeed, 
Italian  literature  in  general  is  so  little  read  among 
us  that  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  transcribe  a  sen- 
tence or  two  from  //  Cortegiano.  This  work,  as 
the  name  indicates,  is  a  discussion  of  the  qualities 
necessary  to  form  a  perfect  courtier,  or,  as  we 
should  say  to-day,  gentleman  ;  and  in  the  first 
book,  after  dwelling  at  some  length  on  the  need 
of  grace  in  every  action,  the  dialogue  turns  aside 
to  touch  on  the  use  of  language  or  style,  and 
continues  as  follows: 

Often  I  have  considered  in  myself  -whence  this  grace 
arises,  and,  leaving  aside  those  who  have  received  it  from 
the  stars,  I  have  discovered  one  universal  rule  which 
more  than  any  other  seems  to  me  in  this  respect  to  pre- 
vail in  all  things  that  men  do  or  say :  and  that  is,  so  far 
as  possible,  and  as  if  it  were  a  sharp  and  perilous  rock,  to 
avoid  affectation  ;  and,  if  I  may  be  pardoned  the  word,  to 
adopt  in  everything  a  certain  sprezzatura  [I  hardly  know 
how  to  translate  the  word ;  it  signifies  an  easy  contempt 
for  the  means  employed,  a  sort  of  gentlemanlike  su- 
periority to  the  results]— a  certain  sprezzatura,  which 
hides  the  art,  and  shows  that  what  we  say  or  do  is  done 
without  fatigue  and  as  it  were  without  taking  thought. 
From  this,  as  I  think,  springs  the  highest  grace;  for 
every  one  knows  the  difficulty  of  things  rare  and  well 
done,  and  in  such  things  a  sense  of  ease  produces  the 
greatest  wonder ;  whereas,  the  display  of  force  and  effort 
destroys  the  charm  and  detracts  from  the  honour  of  things 
that  may  be  great  in  themselves.     .     .     . 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  I 53 

Now  writing,  in  my  opinion,  is  only  a  form  of  speech 
which  abides  after  the  man  has  spoken,  being  an  image, 
or  rather  the  life  itself,  of  his  words.  Therefore,  in 
spoken  language,  which  is  dispersed  with  the  breath  that 
formed  it,  a  certain  license  is  permitted  beyond  what  is 
allowed  in  writing  ;  for  writing  preserves  speech,  sub- 
mitting it  to  the  judgment  of  him  who  reads  and  afford- 
ing time  for  mature  consideration.  Hence  it  is  reasonable 
to  employ  greater  diligence  in  order  that  our  written 
language  may  be  pure  and  elegant,  but  not  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  should  differ  essentially  from  speech. 

Castiglione  was  an  avowed  Platonist,  and  it  is 
probable  that  his  conception  of  style  is  based  on  a 
study  of  that  philosopher  who  certainly,  more  than 
any  other  writer  of  the  past  or  present,  succeeded 
in  combining  the  elements  of  grazia  and  sprezza- 
tura.  In  reading  Thackeray,  I  have  often  been 
struck  by  a  kind  of  similarity  in  his  use  of  lan- 
guage to  Plato's;  there  is  the  same  easy  conversa- 
tional tone,  which  is  always  graceful,  and  rarely, 
even  at  its  loosest,  slipshod,  and  which  on  the 
proper  occasion  can  express  sentiments  of  true 
sublimity  without  the  slightest  apparent  effort. 
It  is  the  complete  absence  of  this  grace  and  this 
sprezzatura  that  renders  so  much  of  Meredith  un- 
comfortable and  at  times  even  painful  reading. 
And  yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  now  and  again, 
without  losing  the  peculiar  flavour  of  his  style,  he 
is  able  to  produce  pages  of  a  strange  and  haunting 
beauty  that  almost  atone  for  chapters  of  dreary 
affectation.  I  have  quoted  Mr.  Meredith  in 
condemnation  of  himself;  scant  justice  calls  for 


154  SIIELBURNE   ESSAYS 

quotation  from  that  famous  scene  by  the  old  weir 
in  Richard  Fever  el,  withal  one  of  the  most  enchant- 
ing love  scenes  in  our  literature  : 

Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken  by 
the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying 
at  anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from 
the  banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble,  and 
there  also  hung  a  daughter  of  earth.  Her  face  was 
shaded  by  a  broad  straw  hat  with  a  flexible  brim  that 
left  her  lips  and  chin  in  the  sun,  and,  sometimes  nod- 
ding, sent  forth  a  light  of  promising  eyes.  Across  her 
shoulders,  and  behind,  flowed  large  loose  curls,  brown  in 
shadow,  almost  golden  where  the  ray  touched  them.  She 
was  simply  dressed,  befitting  decency  and  the  season. 
On  a  closer  inspection  you  might  see  that  her  lips  were 
stained.  This  blooming  young  person  was  regaling  on 
dewberries.  They  grew  between  the  bank  and  the  water. 
.  .  .  The  little  skylark  went  up  above  her,  all  song, 
to  the  smooth  southern  cloud  lying  along  the  blue:  from 
a  dewy  copse  dark  over  her  nodding  hat  the  blackbird 
fluted,  calling  to  her  with  thrice  mellow  note  :  the  king- 
fisher flashed  emerald  out  of  green  osiers  :  a  bow-winged 
heron  travelled  aloft,  seeking  solitude:  a  boat  slipped 
toward  her,  containing  a  dreamy  youth  ;  and  still  she 
plucked  the  fruit,  and  ate,  and  mused,  as  if  no  fairy 
prince  were  invading  her  territories,  and  as  if  she  wished 
not  for  one,  or  knew  not  her  wishes.  Surrounded  by  the 
green  shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral  summer  buzz,  the 
weir-fall's  thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and  beauty 
of  wild  flowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life  in 
a  fair  setting ;  a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic  Youth 
leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir-piles,  and 
beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller  grew  nature, 
as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  Her  posture 
was  so  graceful,  that  though  he  was  making  straight  for 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  I  55 

the  weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a  scull.  Just  then  one  en- 
ticing dewberry  caught  her  eyes.  He  was  floating  by 
unheeded,  and  saw  that  her  hand  stretched  low,  and 
could  not  gather  what  it  sought.  A  stroke  from  his 
right  brought  him  beside  her.  The  damsel  glanced  up 
dismayed,  and  her  whole  shape  trembled  over  the  brink. 
Richard  sprang  from  his  boat  into  the  water.  Pressing  a 
hand  beneath  her  foot,  which  she  had  thrust  against  the 
crumbling  wet  sides  of  the  bank  to  save  herself,  he 
enabled  her  to  recover  her  balance,  and  gain  safe  earth, 
whither  he  followed  her. 

He  had  landed  on  an  island  of  the  still-vexed  Ber- 
moothes.  The  world  lay  wrecked  behind  him  :  Raynham 
hung  in  mists,  remote,  a  phantom  to  the  vivid  reality  of 
this  white  hand  which  had  drawn  him  thither  away 
thousands  of  leagues  in  an  eye-twinkle.  Hark,  how 
Ariel  sang  overhead !  What  splendour  in  the  heavens ! 
What  marvels  of  beauty  about  his  enchanted  brows  ! 
And,  O  you  wonder !  Fair  Flame  !  by  whose  light  the 
glories  of  being  are  now  first  seen.  .  .  .  Radiant 
Miranda!     Prince  Ferdinand  is  at  your  feet. 

I  have  delayed  at  some  length  on  this  matter  of 
language,  because  it  is  really  of  vital  importance, 
— as  vital,  for  instance,  as  colour  to  a  painter, — and 
because  in  Meredith  particularly  an  appreciation 
of  his  style  carries  with  it  a  pretty  general  under- 
standing of  his  work  as  novelist.  There  is  the 
same  lack  of  graceful  ease,  the  same  laboured  in- 
genuity in  his  narration  and  character-drawing. 

His  characters  do  not  stand  forth  smoothly  or 
naturally,  so  that  we  comprehend  them  and  live 
with  them  without  effort.  We  seem  to  be  with 
the  author  in  his  phrontistcrion,  or  thinking-shop  ; 


156  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

there  is  continual  evidence  of  the  intellectual  ma- 
chinery by  which  his  characters  are  created.  To 
some  this  creaking  of  the  wheels  and  pulleys  is  so 
offensive  that  they  throw  away  the  books  in  dis- 
gust, while  others,  themselves  professional  writers 
in  large  part,  take  an  actual  pleasure  in  seeing  the 
whole  process  of  construction  laid  bare  before 
them.  We  have  in  Mr.  Meredith's  works  the 
analytical  novel  par  excellence,  and  it  would  be 
hard  to  exaggerate  the  contrast  between  these  and 
the  perceptive  novel,  or  novel  of  manners,  of 
which  Thackeray  is  the  great  exemplar.  There 
is  undoubtedly  a  certain  legitimate  joy  of  the  in- 
tellect in  pure  analysis  ;  yet  it  should  seem  that 
in  the  novel,  as  in  every  other  form  of  art,  the 
true  master  imitates  nature  more  unconsciously, 
more  objectively,  if  you  will.  The  actions  and 
thoughts  of  his  characters  present  themselves  to 
his  mind  as  a  concrete  reality,  and  so  he  repro- 
duces them.  It  is  rather  the  part  of  the  scientist 
to  evoke  a  character  from  conscious  analysis  of 
motives.  I  have  heard  an  eminent  critic  censure 
Thackeray  as  shallow,  and  extol  Meredith  for  his 
profundity,  without  perhaps  pausing  to  reflect  that 
the  same  logic  would  condemn  Shakespeare.  In- 
deed, such  a  question  would  resolve  itself  into  a 
debate  over  the  respective  profundity  of  art  and 
science — surely  the  idlest  of  all  possible  questions. 
More  to  the  point  is  it  to  observe  that  the  highest 
pleasure,  such  as  comes  with  a  sense  of  inner  ex- 
pansion, and  which  art  aims  above  all  things  to 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  I  57 

bestow,  is  largely  dependent  on  that  sprezzatura 
whose  lack  is  felt  as  much  in  Mr.  Meredith's 
character  study  as  in  his  style. 

Despite  the  admirable  narrative  powers  dis- 
played in  Rhoda  Fleming  and  elsewhere,  the  same 
lack  of  ease  is  too  often  manifest  in  the  construc- 
tion and  plot  of  Mr.  Meredith's  stories.  So  diffi- 
cult is  it,  for  example,  to  follow  the  events  in  the 
closing  chapters  of  The  Egoist  that  the  pleasure  of 
a  first  reading  of  that  inimitable  book  is  consider- 
ably diminished.  But  in  the  construction  of  these 
novels  there  lurks  a  deeper  error  than  mere  want 
of  facility.  We  cannot  but  feel  that  the  author 
has  shown  unusual  genius  in  a  wrong  direction  ; 
and  in  fact,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  any  sound 
criticism  of  Mr.  Meredith  must  continually  repro- 
bate his  methods,  while  at  the  same  time  admiring 
his  powers.  To  this  is  partly  due,  no  doubt,  the 
extreme  divergence  of  opinion  in  regard  to  his 
work.  It  is  easy  to  retort,  as  Mr.  McCarthy  re- 
torted long  ago,  that  the  great  advantage  of  the 
novel  lies  in  the  very  fact  that  it  has  not  been 
subjected  to  literary  canons,  and  remains  free  to 
follow  any  direction.  Epic  has  been  strangled  by 
epic  law  ;  tragedy  was  for  a  long  time  suffocated 
by  the  three  unities;  and  so  it  has  been  with  other 
branches  of  literature  ;  but  in  the  novel  there  is 
no  form  admitted  to  be  of  itself  right  or  wrong. 
There  is  truth  in  this  idea,  and  the  nature  of  the 
novel  has  kept  it  free  from  many  useless  restric- 
tions.    Yet,  however  we  may  welcome  every  form 


158  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

of  narration,  and  even  rejoice  that  novels  are  not 
all  cast  in  one  mould,  still  our  judgment  must 
distinguish,  and  must  regard  one  form  as  higher 
than  another  in  so  far  as  it  is  capable  of  arous- 
ing greater  and  more  satisfactory  interest  in  the 
reader. 

Apart  from  the  story  of  pure  adventure,  which 
as  a  reaction  has  come  into  favour  of  late,  but 
which  can  never  touch  the  reader's  deeper  feel- 
ings, there  have  been  from  the  beginning  two 
classes  of  novels  ;  and,  although  the  terms  may 
be  slightly  misleading  since  the  rules  of  prose  and 
poetical  narration  can  never  quite  coincide,  I 
would  distinguish  these  two  classes  as  the  epic 
and  the  dramatic.  Tom  yones  is  epic  in  its  aim  ; 
Clarissa  Harlowe  is  dramatic.  The  two  schools 
still  persist  side  by  side,  and  a  clear  understanding 
of  their  different  aims  is  of  prime  importance  in 
estimating  the  works  under  question. 

It  is  rather  a  far  cry  from  latter-day  fiction  to 
Homer  and  Sophocles  ;  yet  in  distinguishing  be- 
tween the  aims  of  epic  and  dramatic  narration 
one  is  tempted  to  appeal  to  Greek  rather  than  to 
modern  poets,  for  the  very  reason  that  in  Greece 
the  various  genres  were  more  sharply  defined  in 
practice.  The  theme  of  the  Iliad  is  ostensibly  the 
wrath  of  Achilles,  but  in  reality  the  effect  of  the 
poem  is  double.  The  central  theme  is  heightened 
and  diversified  by  the  picture  of  its  influence  on  a 
great  series  of  events,  while  at  the  same  time  a 
wonderful  panorama  of  war  and  life  is  unrolled 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  I  59 

before  us,  to  whose  varied  scenes  unity  of  effect  is 
lent  by  the  main  subject.  During  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  poem  Achilles  is  almost  forgotten. 
No  drama  remains  which  deals  directly  with  the 
quarrel  of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  but  from  the 
other  dramas  of  Sophocles  it  is  not  hard  to  con- 
ceive how  the  action  would  appear  on  the  stage. 
The  attention  of  the  audience  would  be  concen- 
trated throughout  on  Achilles' s  passion  ;  the  lan- 
guage employed  would  enhance  its  intensity;  and 
all  the  details  of  life  not  bearing  directly  upon  it 
would  be  omitted.  In  a  sense,  the  aim  of  the  epic 
is  breadth  of  view,  the  aim  of  tragedy  is  intensity. 
the  one  proposes  to  offer  a  large  picture  of  life 
artistically  disposed,  the  other  to  express  a  brief 
passion  or  conflict.  The  drama  which  should  at- 
tempt to  concentrate  its  passionate  discourse  upon 
such  a  series  of  events  as  those  depicted  in  the 
epic  would  be  intolerable.  It  would  at  once  seem 
out  of  proportion,  for  existence  is  not  normally 
narrowed  down  to  one  grand  passion,  and  the 
throwing  of  such  intense  light  on  the  little  details 
of  life  would  affect  our  emotional  nature  very 
much  as  close  confinement  would  affect  the  body : 
we  should  gasp  to  be  free.  Besides  keeping  out 
of  view  the  trivial  features  of  life,  the  tragedy 
must  further  idealise  by  the  generalising  influence 
of  highly  wrought  metaphorical  language.  Com- 
pare, for  instance,  one  of  Ibsen's  plays  with  Mac- 
beth. Ibsen  has  violated  the  law  of  tragedy  by 
descending  to  trivialities  and  by  using   prosaic 


l6o  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

language.  The  result  is  evident.  He  affects  our 
emotional  nature  strongly,  more  poignantly  than 
Shakespeare  ;  but  we  lay  down  such  a  play  as 
Ghosts  with  a  sense  of  inner  suffocation,  whereas 
Macbeth  gives  a  feeling  of  expansion,  and  so,  as 
Aristotle  would  say,  purges  the  passions.  Ibsen 
is  as  false  to  life  as  he  is  to  art.  Deep  emotion  in 
reality  tends  to  evoke  general  ideas,  though  in  the 
dumbness  of  our  heart  we  may  need  a  poet  to  give 
them  utterance.  And  all  the  while  the  daily  trivial 
events  of  existence  go  on  about  us  as  it  were  in 
another  sphere.  We  are  conscious  of  a  great  gap 
between  them  and  our  inner  experience ;  and 
when  at  intervals  the  two  spheres  touch,  the 
shock  is  like  a  bitter  awakening.  Any  artist 
who  confounds  these  regions  of  experience  is  false 
to  life  and  to  his  art. 

And  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  novel  ?  Every- 
thing. Despite  its  elasticity  of  form,  the  novel 
which  would  do  more  than  offer  the  lightest  and 
most  transient  amusement  must  in  aim  be  either 
epic  or  tragic, — tragic  not  because  of  its  disastrous 
denouement  necessarily,  but  in  the  way  it  treats 
the  deeper  passions.  Now,  whatever  else  fiction 
may  be,  its  first  purpose  is  to  entertain  ;  and  its 
power  of  entertainment  becomes  of  a  higher  and 
more  lasting  character  in  so  far  as  it  succeeds  in 
enhancing  our  sense  of  life  and  in  purging  the 
emotions.  Tom  Jones  and  the  works  of  that  class 
down  to  the  great  novels  of  Thackeray  offer  a 
picture  of  the  large  currents  of  life  ;  the  passions 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  l6l 

and  struggles  of  the  hero  are  used,  like  the  wrath 
of  Achilles,  to  give  unity  to  the  narrative  ;  and 
we  rise  from  perusing  such  books  with  a  feeling 
of  expansion.  Clarissa  Harlowe  and  its  succes- 
sors, including  modern  problem  novels,  follow  in 
part  the  laws  of  tragedy.  Everything  revolves 
about  a  single  emotion  ;  and  the  longer  and  more 
complicated  the  plot  which  the  author  is  able  to 
concentrate  upon  this  one  emotion,  the  more  con- 
tracting and  painful  is  the  result.  And  this,  we 
maintain,  is  not  an  arbitrary  question  of  literary 
procedure,  but  a  matter  of  psychology. 

In  the  tragedy  proper  this  sense  of  expansion  is 
obtained  by  purging  the  passious, — by  liberating 
them  from  the  sphere  of  petty  details,  and  so  de- 
personalising them, — and  further  by  the  use  of 
lofty  thought  couched  in  language  far  removed 
above  the  speech  of  daily  intercourse.  Who  ever 
wept  over  Macbeth  or  Antigone  f  Indeed,  the 
story  is  well  known  that  the  Athenians  actually 
fined  a  dramatist  for  putting  on  the  stage  a  tragedy 
which  appealed  too  strongly  to  their  sympathies, 
and  forbade  the  play  ever  to  be  presented  again. 
But  the  novel  which  is  denied  the  employment  of 
these  tragic  means  must  proceed  in  another  man- 
ner. Even  more  than  the  epos  it  must  purge  the 
passions  by  enveloping  them  in  the  free  current 
of  life,  which  proceeds  serenely  on  its  way  un- 
troubled by  the  anguish  and  complaints  of  the  in- 
dividual,— and  thus  lighten  the  emotions  of  their 
personal  poignancy. 

VOL.    II.— II. 


l62  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Were  space  at  our  disposal,  it  would  be  possible 
to  analyse  in  detail  each  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels, 
and  show  how  they  turn  for  their  effect  to  the 
laws  of  the  drama  rather  than  the  epos,  and  how, 
in  consequence,  they  leave  the  reader  with  a  sense 
of  contraction.  So,  in  brief,  Richard  Feverel 'holds 
the  mind  from  first  to  last  on  a  single  problem 
(and  that,  by  the  way,  a  fairly  disagreeable  one), 
and  every  incident  is  made  to  bear  upon  its  de- 
velopment. There  seems  to  be  but  one  aspect — 
the  sexual  relation — to  human  life  ;  and  this  is 
presented  without  any  of  the  alleviating  circum- 
stances of  genuine  tragedy.  The  point  is  made 
clear  at  once  by  comparison  with  Tom  Jones  or 
Pendennis,  where  the  infinite  variety  of  human 
activity  is  unrolled  before  us.  So  too  in  The 
Egoist  a  single  problem,  as  the  name  implies,  is 
studied  with  unflagging  persistence.  Not  even  a 
complete  character,  but  one  predominant  trait  is 
made  the  centre  about  which  all  the  incidents  of 
the  book  revolve.  The  novel  is  unquestionably 
a  most  astounding  piece  of  analytical  cleverness, 
yet  is  it  true  to  nature  ?  Hardly,  we  think.  The 
final  impression  is  one  of  mental  and  emotional 
contraction  ;  and  however  useful  such  an  impres- 
sion may  be  in  a  sermon,  it  is  not  altogether  amus- 
ing in  a  work  of  art.  Compare  the  book  with 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  where  again  a  single  trait  in 
hero  and  heroine  is  the  central  theme,  but  where 
this  theme  is  used  rather  to  lend  interest  to  a  pic- 
ture of  life,  a  picture  in  miniature  yet  complete  in 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  I 63 

its  way,  and  the  difference  is  immediately  appar- 
ent. The  one  contracts,  the  other  expands.  Nor 
should  it  be  supposed  that  this  difference  depends 
to  any  large  extent  on  the  tragic  or  non-tragic 
ending  of  the  plot ;  although  the  formal  law  of 
the  epic  demands  a  peaceful  conclusion,  and  the 
novel,  to  give  the  highest  pleasure,  would  seem 
to  follow  the  epic  rather  than  the  drama  in  this 
respect  also.  Hawthorne,  in  The  Scarlet  Letter, 
conies  nearer  to  justifying  the  employment  of  the 
tragic  scheme  in  prose  narration  than  any  other 
English  novelist ;  but  to  do  this  he  has  created  a 
style  which  carries  his  book  almost  out  of  the  re- 
gion of  the  novel.  He  has  so  subordinated  the 
realistic  representation  of  life  to  a  subtle  all-per- 
vading symbolism  that  his  work  is  properly  a 
romance  or  prose- poem.  That  elevation  and 
generalising  ideal  which  the  tragedian  effects  by 
means  of  his  poetic  medium,  Hawthorne  achieves 
in  part  by  his  inimitable  language  and  in  much 
greater  part  by  putting  aside  all  that  close  por- 
trayal of  life  which  forms  the  very  substance  of 
the  regular  novel  and  by  making  his  people  and 
his  plot  mere  symbols  of  some  inner  shadowy 
mood  of  the  soul.  His  method  is  perfectly  justi- 
fied by  the  results,  but  one  cannot  read  a  page  of 
The  Scarlet  Letter  without  feeling  that  the  author's 
purpose  and  accomplishment  are  quite  different 
from  those  of  Mr.  Meredith  or  of  any  regular 
novelist  whose  first  aim  is  to  portray  real  life.' 
1  As  I  read  over  these  paragraphs  written  a  uutuber  of 


164  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

So  much  may  be  said  to  explain  why  a  writer 
of  such  extraordinary  genius  as  Mr.  Meredith 
fails  to  produce  works  of  art  that  can  be  ranked 
with  the  greatest.  And  we  would  repeat  that 
these  artistic  laws  which  he  transgresses  are  not 
conventional  rules  imposed  arbitrarily.  They  are 
inherent  in  the  medium  which  the  novelist  must 
use;  any  infraction  of  them  means  that  the  author 
does  not  adopt  the  best  and  highest  method  of 
giving  pleasure  at  his  disposal,  and  his  error  is 
more  likely  to  be  condoned  by  the  half-informed 
critic  than  by  the  unreflecting  reader  of  native 
good  taste. 

In  the  case  of  Mr.  Meredith  the  artistic  fault  is 
more  or  less  intimately  connected  with  a  still 
deeper  error,  which  concerns  his  mode  of  regard- 
ing human  nature,  and  which  associates  him  to  a 
certain  degree  with  the  naturalists.  The  weak- 
ness of  the  naturalistic  novel  has  been  exposed 
more  than  once,  but  never,  perhaps,  so  exhaus- 
tively and  competently  as  by  Juan  Valera  in  his 
Nnevos  Estudios.  Naturalism  is  an  outgrowth  or 
degradation,  he  would  have  it,  of  romanticism. 
The  romantic  movement  reflected  an  abnegation 
of  the  will  as  controlled  by  reason,  and  a  substitu- 
tion in  its  place  of  the  emotions  guided  by  the 
vagaries  of  fancy.     From  this  untrammelled  use 

years  ago  the  distinction  between  the  epic  and  the  dra- 
matic novel  seems  to  me  essentially  just,  but  incomplete. 
At  another  time  Clarissa  Harlowe  may  furnish  the  occa- 
sion for  developing  the  theory. 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  l6$ 

of  the  fancy,  naturalism,  following  in  the  wake 
of  the  materialistic  advances  of  science,  turned  to 
the  boasted  study  of  reality,  thus  leaving  room 
neither  for  the  free  will  nor  for  the  imagination. 
The  novelist,  according  to  Zola,  "  is  one  who 
studies  man  experimentally,  mounting  and  dis- 
mounting piece  by  piece  the  human  mechanism 
by  which,  under  the  influence  of  environment,  he 
performs  his  functions. ' '  Here  is  no  account  of 
man  as  a  free  agent ;  his  acts  are  the  inevitable 
outcome  of  his  inherited  disposition  and  surround- 
ing circumstances.  As  Paul  Alexis  forcibly  ex- 
presses it  in  his  book  on  Zola,  "  man  is,  fatally, 
the  product  of  a  particular  hereditary  tempera- 
ment, which  unfolds  itself  in  a  certain  physical, 
intellectual,  and  moral  environment." 

It  would  be  neither  critical  nor  just  to  class  Mr. 
Meredith  unreservedly  with  the  naturalists.  In 
many  respects  he  is  widely  removed  from  them. 
Naturalism  can  flourish  only  where  the  audience 
itself  has  lost  faith  in  the  will-power,  and  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race  is  too  healthy  to  permit  one  of 
its  greatest  writers  to  fall  completely  under  this 
decadent  influence.  Nevertheless,  it  is  true  that 
such  novels  as  Richard  Feverel  and  The  Egoist  do 
belong  in  part  to  this  category.  So  long  as  the 
free  will  is  paramount,  a  novel  tends  to  depict  a  full 
character,  and  to  unfold  a  picture  of  life  wherein 
the  individual  acts  upon  the  world,  and  the  world 
reacts  upon  him.  So  soon  as  the  will  is  de- 
throned, the  novel  tends  to  become  a  treatise  on 


l66  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

the  influence  of  environment  upon  character  orac 
analytical  study  of  particular  inherited  traits  of 
character.  Just  this  has  happened  in  the  case  of 
Mr.  Meredith.  Like  his  own  Captain  Baskelett, 
"  the  secret  of  his  art  would  seem  to  be  to  show 
the  automatic  human  creature  at  loggerheadi 
with  a  necessity  that  winks  at  remarkable  preten- 
sions, while  condemning  it  perpetually  to  doll-like 
actions."  Richard  Feverel  is  a  long  and  patientK 
elaborated  monograph  on  the  development  of 
character  under  peculiar  circumstances.  Given  a 
lad  of  normal  temper,  how  will  he  be  affected  by  a 
certain  systematic  course  of  training  ?  It  will  be 
noticed,  however,  that  the  modifying  influence  is 
here  the  active  personality  of  his  father  ;  we  are 
still  a  wide  step  from  regarding  man  as  a  mere 
mechanism.  Justice  will  further  add  that,  despite 
the  delicacy  of  its  theme,  the  book  remains  per- 
fectly decent  throughout.  In  The  Egoist  a  par- 
ticular trait  of  character  is  analysed  and  expatiated 
on  with  vast  ingenuity  and,  it  must  be  confessed, 
rather  tedious  monotony.  Indeed,  the  ordinary 
fault  of  naturalism  is  its  lack  of  interest,  so  thai 
we  see  the  genuine  naturalists  constantly  seeking 
to  attract  readers  by  all  sorts  of  illegitimate  allure- 
ments of  the  animal  senses.  Juan  Valera  curtly 
asks  :  ' '  How  can  such  novels  interest,  when  they 
present  a  temperament,  and  not  a  character ;  a 
mere  machine  which  moves  in  obedience  to  physi- 
ological laws  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Meredith  is  again  far  from  portraying  mac 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  167 

from  the  purely  physiological  point  of  view,  al- 
though parts  of  Richard  Fcvcrcl  and  others  of  his 
novels  do  approach  perilously  near  this  view,  and 
always  there  is  in  him  a  tendency  to  confuse 
things  of  the  body  and  of  the  spirit.  This  is  seen 
in  his  treatment  of  love  and  women,  and  more 
generally  in  his  analysis  of  the  emotions.  Now, 
apart  from  the  bald  statement  that  a  character  feels 
such  and  such  an  emotion,  the  novelist  has  at 
command  two  modes  of  description, — conversation 
and  physical  action.  Readers  of  Plato  will  re- 
member that  philosopher's  scathing  denunciation 
of  the  poets,  and  of  Homer  in  particular,  because 
of  their  portrayal  of  passion  by  means  of  physical 
attributes.  Their  heroes  weep,  rend  the  hair, 
roll  on  the  ground,  and  give  way  to  other  demon- 
strations which  excite  the  critical  Athenian's 
scorn.  Plato  in  this  is  consistent,  for  his  dismis- 
sal of  the  poets  is  but  a  part  of  his  sweeping  con- 
demnation of  art  in  general,  in  so  far  as  art  must 
depend  on  the  body  for  its  power  of  expression. 
There  is  undoubtedly  in  all  art  an  insidious  lurk- 
ing danger,  which,  as  Plato  clearly  sets  forth,  lies 
in  its  tendency  to  relax  the  moral  fibre  by  trans- 
lating things  spiritual  into  corporeal  symbols.  If 
this  be  true,  we  ought  to  be  more  jealous  of  any 
false  encroachment  of  physical  methods  into  its 
realm;  for  there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  method, 
and  unfortunately  Mr.  Meredith  has  not  always 
kept  in  the  narrow  path.  Physical  actions,  which 
are  under  control  of  the  will  and  thus  remain  to 


l68  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

a  great  extent  voluntary,  are  legitimate  ;  physical 
states,  which  do  not  depend  on  the  free  agency 
of  the  individual,  must  be  used  with  a  sparing 
hand,  for  frequent  recurrence  to  such  means  of 
expression  at  once  tends  to  confuse  the  spirit  with 
the  body,  and  to  offer  us  the  study  of  a  tempera- 
ment in  place  of  true  characterisation.  This 
pathological  mode  of  description  is  distinctly  a 
sin  of  modern  times,  culminating  in  the  nauseous 
abuse  of  the  naturalists.  It  would  be  easy  to 
take  all  the  great  emotions  of  the  heart, — fear,  re- 
venge, love,  jealousy,  hate,  rage,  despair, —  and 
show  how  differently  they  are  treated  in  this  re- 
spect by  Fielding  or  Thackeray  and  by  writers  of 
the  modern  school.  Here  again  the  translation 
of  these  passions  into  physical  acts  that  depend  on 
the  energy  of  the  will  leaves  us  with  a  sense  of 
expansion  and  mental  relief,  whereas  the  patho- 
logical method  disturbs  and  contracts.  I  cannot 
emphasise  this  truth  better  than  by  quoting  sev- 
eral brief  passages  from  Meredith,  and  allowing 
them  to  speak  for  themselves.  So  he  says  of  one 
of  his  characters  :  "  His  head  throbbed  with  the 
hearing  of  a  heavy  laugh,  as  if  a  hammer  had 
knocked  it. ' '  Elsewhere  :  ' '  His  natural  horror  of 
a  resolute  man,  more  than  fear,  made  him  shiver 
and  gave  his  tongue  an  acid  taste. ' '  And  again : 
"  Emilia  thought  of  Wilfrid  in  a  way  that  made 
the  vault  of  her  brain  seem  to  echo  with  jarred 
chords."  It  is  not,  of  course,  the  occasional  re- 
course to  such  means  which  is  objectionable,  but 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  1 69 

their  perpetual  use.  Every  one  will  admit  with 
our  novelist  that ' '  we  are  all  in  submission  to  mor- 
tal laws,"  but  a  stauncher  belief  in  the  power  of 
the  will  hesitates  to  accept  his  declaration  that 
"our  souls  are  hideously  subject  to  the  conditions 
of  our  animal  nature!  " 

In  one  respect  Mr.  Meredith  has  carried  this 
passive  physical  expression  to  a  fantastic  ex- 
tremity, which  I  mention  as  much  for  its  amusing 
absurdity  as  for  its  real  significance.  Apparently 
he  has  found  a  new  seat  of  all  the  emotions  :  this 
is  no  longer  the  heart,  or  the  Biblical  bowels,  or 
the  brain,  but — the  eyelids.  L,et  me  justify  the 
statement  by  quotations:  "  Hurt  vanity  led  Wil- 
frid to  observe  that  the  woman's  eyes  dwelt  with  a 
singular  fulness  and  softness  void  of  fire,  a  true 
ox-eyed  gaze,  but  human  in  the  fall  of  the  eye- 
lids." "She  had  reddened  deliciously,  and  there- 
with hung  a  dewy  rosy  moisture  on  her  underlids." 
"We  are  creatures  of  custom.  I  am,  I  confess,  a 
poltroon  in  my  affections;  I  dread  changes.  The 
shadow  of  the  tenth  of  an  inch  in  the  customary 
elevation  of  an  eyelid!  "  These  are  not  isolated 
cases.  After  a  while  one  begins  to  believe  that 
hope,  fear,  humour,  love,  hate,  anger,  horror, 
friendship,  cunning,  timidity,  modesty, —  all  the 
passions  of  human  nature  are  bound  up  with  the 
flutter  of  an  eyelid.  It  is  the  very  ad  absurdum  of 
passive  physical  description. 

Mr.  Meredith's  psychological  attitude  may  be 
further  traced  in  his  characterisation  of  women. 


i;0  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

It  is,  in  fact,  noteworthy  that  the  present  race  of 
novelists  are  wont  to  take  more  interest  in,  and 
succeed  better  with,  their  feminine  than  their 
male  characters.  But  here  we  tread  on  perilous 
ground.  After  all  that  has  been  written  by  women 
on  the  failure  of  the  masculine  mind  to  grasp  the 
subtleties  of  the  female  heart,  what  man  is  rash 
enough  to  step  forward  as  a  judge  ?  Fortunately 
for  me,  a  clever  woman  has  settled  the  matter. 
Miss  Adeline  Sargent  has  left  on  record  that 
"George  Meredith  is  one  of  the  few  novelists  of 
any  age  or  time  who  see  not  only  man  but  woman 
as  she  is."  Strange  that,  after  such  an  avowal, 
she  should  object  so  vehemently  to  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's psychological  analysis  of  woman !  We  may 
perhaps  explain  the  discrepancy  by  supposing  that 
he  depicts  women  as  they  are,  though  not  as  they 
are  to  be.  But  let  us  hear  Miss  Sargent  again. 
She  quotes  from  Meredith  as  follows:  "Women 
have  us  back  to  the  conditions  of  the  primitive 
man,  or  they  shoot  us  higher  than  the  topmost 
star.  But  it  is  as  we  please.  Let  them  tell  us 
what  we  are  to  them :  for  us,  they  are  the  back 
and  front  of  life:  the  poet's  Lesbia,  the  poet's 
Beatrice,  ours  is  the  choice.  They  are  to  us  what 
we  hold  of  best  or  worst  within. ' '  Miss  Sargent's 
comment  on  this  theory  is  naive  :  "In  these  sen- 
tences there  is  an  assumption  of  woman's  want  of 
consciousness  or  want  of  volition  in  the  matter." 
So  delicate  is  this  subject  that  I  may  be  pardoned 
for  again  taking  refuge  behind  authorities, —  this 


GEORGE    MEREDITH  171 

time  a  man,  but  a  man  of  the  most  feminine 
genius.  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  is  enthusiastic  in  his 
praise  of  our  novelist,  as  will  be  seen:  "In  his  de- 
lineation of  them  [women]  his  fearless  adoption 
of  the  modern  conception  of  the  unity  of  body  and 
spirit  finds  its  poetry.  No  writer  with  whom  I 
am  acquainted  has  made  us  so  realise  '  the  value 
and  significance  of  flesh,'  and  spirit  as  the  flower 
of  it.  In  his  women  we  seem  to  see  the  transmu- 
tation in  process."  It  is  in  the  last  analysis  just 
because  Mr.  Meredith  discovers  this  "  want  of 
volition"  in  human  nature,  and  adopts  so  fear- 
lessly this  "  modern  conception  of  the  unity  of 
body  and  spirit,"  that  his  feminine  characters  are 
complete  ;  whereas  his  studies  of  men,  though 
wonderfully  keen  and  incisive,  always  leave  some- 
thing to  be  desired.  Clara  Middleton  and  Diana, 
with  their  feverish  attempt  at  revolt,  and  their 
final  succumbing  in  marriage  with  a  character  of 
placid  but  undeveloped  strength,  are  perhaps  his 
most  perfect  creations.  But  I  hasten  to  take 
leave  of  this  perilous  subject,  and  with  it  of  Mr. 
Meredith. 

In  the  end,  I  see  that  my  criticism,  whatever 
its  value,  has  been  almost  entirely  destructive  ;  yet 
I  would  not  leave  this  as  the  final  impression.  In 
spite  of  the  error  of  his  methods,  Mr.  Meredith  is 
a  writer  of  extraordinary  and,  to  me  at  least,  fas- 
cinating genius.  If  he  cannot  stand  with  the 
three  great  novelists  who  were  almost  his  contem- 
poraries, this  is  due  rather  to  perversion  than  to 


172  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

feebleness  of  wit;  and  at  the  least  he  ranks  far 
above  the  common  herd.  One  might  say  of  him, 
distorting  Gray's  familiar  line, — 

Above  the  good  how  far — but  far  beneath  the  great. 

There  are  many  reasons,  and  alas  that  it  should 
be  so,  for  believing  that  the  novel,  like  other  liter- 
ary forms  in  the  past,  has  reached  its  highest  per- 
fection and  is  already  declining  in  excellence. 
Mr.  Meredith,  if  compared  with  Thackeray  and 
his  peers,  shows  only  too  clearly  a  decadent  ten- 
dency; yet  what  a  treasure  of  enjoyment  his  wit 
and  imagination  have  left  to  the  world!  And  so 
refreshing  at  times  is  his  obstinate  originality  that 
one  is  almost  tempted,  when  reflecting  on  the 
tameness  of  lesser  men,  to  extol  his  faults  as 
added  virtues. 


HAWTHORNE:    LOOKING  BEFORE  AND 
AFTER 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  just  one 
hundred  years  ago,  and,  by  a  happy  coincidence, 
the  one  artist  who  worked  in  materials  thoroughly 
American  and  who  is  worthy  to  take  a  place 
among  the  great  craftsmen  of  the  world  celebrates 
his  nativity  on  the  birthday  of  the  nation.1  By 
something  more  than  a  mere  coincidence  he  lived 
and  wrote  at  the  only  period  in  the  history  of  the 
country  which  could  have  fostered  worthily  his 
peculiar  genius;  he  came  just  when  the  moral 
ideas  of  New  England  were  passing  from  the  con- 
science to  the  imagination  and  just  before  the 
slow,  withering  process  of  decay  set  in.  As  I 
read  his  novels  and  tales  to-day,  with  the  thought 
of  this  centenary  in  my  mind,  the  inevitable  com- 
parison arises  with  what  preceded  and  what  exists 

1  On  the  Fourth  of  July,  1904,  the  centenary  of  Haw- 
thorne's birth  was  celebrated  at  Salem,  Mass.,  at  Bow- 
doin  College  and  elsewhere.  I  was  asked  to  write 
something  in  commemoration  of  the  season  for  the  In- 
dependent, and  it  seemed  appropriate  to  consider  Haw- 
thorne's work  historically,  as  the  central  point  of  a  long 
development  in  New  England  literature. 
173 


174  SHEL1UJRNE   ESSAYS 

now;  he  stands  as  a  connecting  link  between  old 
Cotton  Mather  and—  magna  cum  parvis — Mary 
Wilkins  Freeman,  and  only  by  looking  thus  be- 
fore and  after  can  one  get  a  clear  idea  of  his 
work . 

It  seldom  happens,  in  fact,  that  the  history  of  a 
country  shows  so  logical  a  development  as  that 
represented  by  these  three  names.  To  look  back- 
ward, almost  all  of  Hawthorne  may  be  found  in 
germ  in  the  group  of  ecclesiastical  writers  among 
whom  Cotton  Mather  rises  pre-eminent,  and  he  in 
turn  is  but  a  spokesman  of  that  half-civilisation 
which  migrated  across  the  Atlantic  under  the 
pressure  of  the  L,audian  persecutions.  I  say  half- 
civilisation,  for  the  beginnings  of  New  England 
took  place  when  the  mother  country  was  split,  as 
no  people  in  the  world  ever  before  was  divided, 
not  by  sectional  but  by  moral  differences  into  two 
hostile  parties;  nor  do  we  always  remember  how 
largely  the  brilliant  flowering  and  quick  decay  of 
New  England  depend  on  this  incompleteness  of 
her  origins.  Especially  is  this  true  in  literature. 
Read  through  the  critical  essays  that  were  written 
in  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  ages  and  you 
will  be  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  most  serious  de- 
bate was  whether  poetry  had  any  right  to  exist  at 
all.  That  discussion,  of  course,  is  as  old  as  Plato 
and  was  taken  up  by  the  Italians  of  the  Renais- 
sance as  part  of  their  classical  inheritance.  But 
in  England  the  question  was  not  academic,  but 
vital;  it  came  to  the  actual  test  of  battle.     As 


HAWTHORNE  175 

early  as  1579,  in  the  very  first  bloom  of  that  "per- 
petual spring  of  ever-growing  invention,"  Stephen 
Gosson  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney  his  School 
of  Abuse,  which  he  aptly  describes  as  "  an  invec- 
tive against  poets,  pipers,  players,  jesters,  and 
such-like  caterpillars  of  a  Commonwealth." 
"  The  fathers  of  lies,  pipes  of  vanity,  and  schools 
of  abuse,"  to  use  another  of  the  crabbed  Gosson's 
phrases,  remained  snugly  in  the  mother  country, 
along  with  those  who  thought  it  possible  to  wor- 
ship God  with  the  homage  of  the  imagination, 
who  made  of  religion,  in  fact,  a  fine  sense  of  de- 
corum in  the  ordering  of  the  world.  The  wonder 
might  seem  to  be  that  any  literature  at  all  ever 
sprang  from  the  half-civilisation  that  came  to  New 
England,  or  that  any  sense  of  art  found  root 
among  a  people  who  contemned  the  imagination 
as  evil  and  restricted  the  outpouring  of  emotion 
to  the  needs  of  a  fervid  but  barren  worship.  The 
root  was  indeed  long  in  coming  to  flower,  yet 
there  are  passages  in  the  Magnalia  of  Cotton 
Mather  both  magnificent  in  themselves  and  indis- 
pensable for  a  right  understanding  of  what  was  to 
follow.  There  is,  for  example,  that  famous  ac- 
count of  the  death  of  John  Cotton,  worthy  of  re- 
peated quotation: 

After  this  in  that  study,  which  had  been  perfumed  with 
many  such  days  before,  he  now  spent  a  day  in  secret 
humiliations  and  supplications  before  the  Lord  ;  seeking 
the  special  assistances  1  f  the  Holy  Spirit,  for  the  great 
work  of  dying,  that  was  now  before  him.     What  glorious 


176  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

transactions  might  one  have  heard  passing  between  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  an  excellent  servant  of  his,  now 
coming  unto  him,  if  he  could  have  had  an  hearing  place 
behind  the  hangings  of  the  chamber,  in  such  a  day  ! 
But  having  finished  the  duties  of  the  day,  he  took  his 
leave  of  his  beloved  study,  saying  to  his  consort,  /  shall 
go  into  that  room  no  more  ! 

That  is  the  positive  side  of  the  ideal,  and  it  is  a 
dull  heart  to-day  that  can  read  this  story  of  rapt 
holiness  without  a  thrill  of  wonder  and  admira- 
tion. But  the  negative  side  is  close  at  hand.  The 
same  annalist  records  of  another  of  his  family, 
Nathaniel  Mather,  a  little  incident  that  shows 
how  inveterate  was  the  suppression  of  the  easy 
enjoyments  and  emotions  of  life.  The  quotation 
is  from  Nathaniel's  diary: 

When  very  young  I  went  astray  from  God,  and  my 
mind  was  altogether  taken  with  vanities  and  follies ; 
such  as  the  remembrance  of  them  doth  greatly  abase  my 
soul  within  me.  Of  the  manifold  sins  which  then  I  was 
guilty  of,  none  so  sticks  upon  me,  as  that  being  very 
young,  I  was  whittling  on  the  Sabbath-day ;  and  for  fear 
of  being  seen,  I  did  it  behind  the  door.  A  great  reproach 
of  God !  a  specimen  of  that  atheism  that  I  brought  into 
the  world  with  me  ! 

One  may  be  inclined  to  smile,  perhaps,  at  this 
early  intrusion  into  sacred  literature  of  the  Yan- 
kee's proverbial  trick  of  whittling,  but  he  will  be 
more  apt  to  marvel  at  the  austerity  of  a  discipline 
which  could  associate  such  a  childish  escapade 
with  life-long  remorse.      It  is  not  strange  that 


HAWTHORNE  1 77 

melancholy  hovered  over  that  chosen  laud.     To 
quote  from  the  Magnalia  once  again: 

There  are  many  men,  who  in  the  very  constitution  of 
their  bodies,  do  afford  a  bed,  wherein  busy  and  bloody 
devils,  have  a  sort  of  lodging  provided  for  them.  .  .  . 
'Tis  well  if  self-murder  be  not  the  sad  end,  into  which 
these  hurried  people  are  thus  precipitated.  New  Eng- 
land, a  country  where  splenetic  maladies  are  prevailing 
and  pernicious,  perhaps  above  any  other,  hath  afforded 
numberless  instances,  of  even  pious  people,  who  have 
contracted  those  melancholy  indispositions,  which  have 
unhinged  them  from  all  service  or  comfort ;  yea  not  a 
few  persons  have  been  hurried  thereby  to  lay  violent 
hands  upon  themselves  at  the  last.  These  are  among 
the  unsearchable  judgments  of  God  ! 

It  is  not  fanciful,  I  think,  to  find  in  these  three 
passages  from  the  greatest  of  the  early  New  Eng- 
land divines  the  ideas  that  were  in  due  time  to 
blossom  into  a  true  and  peculiar  literature.  That 
isolation  from  the  world  and  absorption  in  an 
ideal  that  signalised  the  death  of  John  Cotton  were 
to  leave  an  echo  in  many  lives  through  the  follow- 
ing years.  Nor  did  the  inability  to  surrender  to 
the  common  expansive  emotions  of  human  nature 
and  the  dark  brooding  on  damnation  utterly  die 
out  when  the  real  cause  ceased  to  act.  They 
changed,  but  did  not  pass  away.  When,  with 
the  coming  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  fierce 
democracy  of  those  Northern  States  asserted  itself 
against  priestly  control  and  at  the  same  time 
shook  off  the  bondage  of  orthodoxy,  it  only  moved 

VOL.  II. — 12. 


178  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

the  burden  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other,  and 
the  inner  tyranny  of  conscience  became  as  exact- 
ing as  the  authority  of  the  Church  had  been. 
But  this  shifting  of  the  centre  of  authority  from 
without  to  within  was  at  least  fruitful  in  one  im- 
portant respect:  it  brought  about  that  further 
transition  from  the  conscience  to  the  imagination 
which  made  possible  the  only  serious  literature 
this  country  has  yet  produced.  In  that  shift 
from  the  conscience  to  the  imagination  lies  the 
very  source  of  Hawthorne's  art.  The  awful  voice 
of  the  old  faith  still  reverberates  in  his  stories  of 
New  England  life  and  gives  them  their  depth  of 
consciousness;  the  dissolution  of  the  commands 
of  a  sectarian  conscience  into  the  forms  of  a  subtle 
symbolism  lifts  them  from  provincial  importance 
merely  to  the  sphere  of  universal  art. 

Nor  is  it  at  all  difficult  to  follow  the  religion  of 
the  seventeenth  into  the  art  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  In  an  earlier  essay  on  The  Solitude  of 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne  I  pointed  out — what  must 
be  plain  to  every  reader  of  that  author — the  cen- 
tral significance  of  his  Ethan  Bra7id  in  the  circle 
of  his  works.  So  manifestly  do  the  doctrines  of 
Cotton  Mather  stalk  through  that  tale  under  the 
transparent  mask  of  fiction  that  it  might  almost 
seem  as  if  Hawthorne  had  taken  the  passages  just 
quoted  from  the  Magnalia  as  a  text  for  his  fancy. 
For  the  first  quotation,  in  place  of  the  rigid  theo- 
logian "  perfuming"  the  bleak  atmosphere  of  his 
study  with  meditations  on  the  great  work  of  dying 


HAWTHORNE  1 79 

orthodoxly,  we  have  Kthan  Brand,  the  lime- 
burner,  dwelling  in  the  fragrant  solitude  of  the 
mountains,  watching  his  kiln  through  the  long 
revolutions  of  the  sun  and  the  stars,  perplexing 
his  mind  with  no  problem  of  predestination  and 
free-will,  but  with  the  meaning  of  life  itself,  with 
its  tangle  of  motives  and  restraining  intelli- 
gence. For  the  second  quotation,  in  place  of 
remorse  over  one  act  of  surrender  to  impulse 
against  the  arbitrary  dictates  of  religion,  we 
have  a  strange  reversal  of  Puritan  faith  through 
the  lens  of  the  imagination.  Ethan  Brand 
returns  to  his  long-abandoned  lime-kiln  after 
wandering  over  the  world,  bringing  with  him 
the  sense  that  he  has  sought  and  found  at 
last  in  his  own  heart  the  Unpardonable  Sin,  the 
sin  of  banishing  from  the  breast  all  those  natural, 
spontaneous  emotions  in  the  pursuit  of  an  idea. 
He  bears  the  mark,  not  of  an  artificial  atheism, 
like  that  which  abased  the  soul  of  the  young 
divine,  but  of  that  auanthropism  (if  I  may  use  the 
word)  which  was  the  real  sin  of  New  England, 
symbolised  by  the  strange  nature  of  his  successful 
search.  "  He  had  lost  his  hold  of  the  magnetic 
chain  of  humanity.  He  was  no  longer  a  brother- 
man,  opening  the  chambers  or  the  dungeons  of 
our  common  nature  by  the  key  of  holy  sympathy, 
which  gave  him  a  right  to  share  in  all  its  secrets; 
he  was  now  a  cold  observer,  looking  on  mankind 
as  the  subject  of  his  experiment."  There  lies  the 
tragedy  not  of  Ethan   Brand  alone,  but  of  the 


180  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

later  New  England.  The  dogmas  of  faith  had 
passed  away  and  left  this  loneliness  of  an  unmean- 
ing idealism;  the  enthusiasm  which  had  trampled 
on  the  kindly  emotions  of  the  day  has  succumbed, 
and  the  contempt  of  the  human  heart  has  given 
place  to  this  intolerable  loneliness. 

And  last  of  all  there  is  the  "splenetic  malady," 
the  melancholy  that  pursues  this  thwarting  of  na- 
ture and  drives  the  wanderer  to  lay  violent  hands 
on  himself.  The  burning  of  Ethan  Brand  in  the 
lime- kiln,  within  the  circle  of  whose  crimson  light 
he  had  pondered  the  Unpardonable  Sin,  is  not, 
in  the  sense  of  Cotton  Mather,  one  of  the  un- 
searchable judgments  of  God,  but  a  cunningly 
devised  symbol  of  literary  art. 

This  is  the  second  act  of  the  New  England 
drama,  and  the  third  proceeds  from  it  as  naturally 
as  the  second  proceeded  from  the  first.  From  the 
religious  intolerance  of  Cotton  Mather  to  the  im- 
aginative isolation  of  Hawthorne  and  from  that 
to  the  nervous  impotence  of  Mrs.  Freeman's  men 
and  women,  is  a  regular  progress.  The  great 
preacher  sought  to  suppress  all  worldly  emotions; 
the  artist  made  of  the  solitude  which  follows  this 
suppression  one  of  the  tragic  symbols  of  human 
destiny;  the  living  novelist  portrays  a  people  in 
whom  some  native  spring  of  action  has  been  dried 
up,  and  who  suffer  in  a  dumb,  unreasoning  in- 
ability to  express  any  outreaching  passion  of  the 
heart  or  to  surrender  to  any  common  impulse  of 
the  body.    It  is  true,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Freeman 


HAWTHORNE  l8l 

describes  only  a  single  phase  of  New  England 
character,  just  as  Hawthorne  did  before  her;  but 
the  very  genealogy  of  her  genius  shows  that  she 
has  laid  hold  of  an  essential  trait  of  that  charac- 
ter, and,  indeed,  it  needs  but  little  acquaintance 
with  the  stagnant  towns  of  coast  and  mountains 
to  have  met  more  than  one  of  the  people  of  her 
books  actual  in  the  flesh.  Her  stories  are  not 
tragic  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word;  they  have 
no  universal  meaning  and  contain  no  problem 
of  the  struggle  between  human  desires  and  the 
human  will,  or  between  the  will  and  the  burden 
of  circumstances.  They  are,  as  it  were,  the  echo 
of  a  tragedy  long  ago  enacted;  they  touch  the 
heart  with  the  faint  pathos  of  flowers  pressed 
and  withered  in  a  book,  which,  found  by  chance, 
awaken  the  vague  recollection  of  outlived  emo- 
tions. They  are  very  beautiful  in  their  own  way, 
but  they  are  thoroughly  provincial,  just  as  the 
treatises  of  Cotton  Mather  were  provincial;  they 
have  passed  from  the  imagination  to  the  nerves. 

Already  in  Hawthorne  we  find  the  beginnings 
of  this  strangely  repressed  life.  Hepzibah  Pyn- 
cheon,  struggling  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  im- 
potence to  submit  to  the  rude  contact  of  the  world, 
is  the  true  parent  of  all  those  stiffened,  lonely 
women  that  haunt  the  scenes  of  Mrs.  Freeman's 
little  stage.  Only  there  is  this  signal  difference: 
poor,  blighted  Hepzibah  is  part  of  a  great  drama 
of  the  conscience  which  in  its  brooding  over  the 
curse  of  ancestral  sin  can  only  be  compared  with 


182  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

the  Ate  of  the  vEschylean  theatre.  All  the  char- 
acters that  move  within  the  shadow  of  that  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables  are  involved  in  one  tragic 
idea  assimilated  by  the  author's  imagination  from 
the  religious  inheritance  of  the  society  about  him 
— the  idea  that  pride,  whether  worldly  or  un- 
worldly, works  out  its  penalty  in  the  separation 
of  the  possessor  from  the  common  heart  of  hu- 
manity. But  in  Mrs.  Freeman's  tales  this  moral 
has  utterly  vanished;  they  have  no  significance 
beyond  the  pathos  of  the  lonely  desolation  de- 
picted. Her  first  book,  A  Humble  Romance,  is 
made  up  of  these  frustrate  lives,  which  are  with- 
held by  some  incomprehensible  paralysis  of  the 
heart  from  accepting  the  ordinary  joys  of  hu- 
manity, and  her  latest  book,  The  Givers,  appeals 
to  our  sympathy  by  the  same  shadow  of  a  fore- 
gone tragedy. 

Very  characteristic  in  the  first  book  is  the  story 
of  the  Two  Old  Lovers,  There  was  nothing  to 
keep  them  apart,  none  of  the  well-used  obstacles 
of  romance  in  the  shape  of  poverty  or  tyrannous 
parents  or  religious  differences  or  an  existing 
alliance — nothing  save  the  ingrown  inability  of 
the  man  to  yield  to  the  simple  call  of  his  own 
bosom.  For  many  years  he  visits  the  girl  and, 
as  time  passes,  the  aged  woman,  as  an  accepted 
but  curiously  undemonstrative  lover.  There  is, 
to  me  at  least,  a  pathos  like  the  nightly  memory 
of  tears  in  the  watchfulness  of  the  waiting  woman 
over  her  diffident  wooer: 


HAWTHORNE  1 83 

She  saw  him  growing  an  old  man,  and  the  lonely,  un- 
cared-for life  that  he  led  filled  her  heart  with  tender  pity 
and  sorrow  for  him.  She  did  not  confine  her  kind  offices 
to  the  Saturday  baking.  Every  week  his  little  house  was 
tidied  and  set  to  rights,  and  his  mending  looked  after. 
Once,  on  a  Sunday  night,  when  she  spied  a  rip  in  his 
coat,  that  had  grown  long  from  the  want  of  womanly 
fingers  constantly  at  hand,  she  had  a  good  cry  after  he 
had  left  and  she  had  gone  to  her  room.  There  was  some- 
thing more  pitiful  to  her,  something  that  touched  her 
heart  more  deeply,  in  that  rip  in  her  lover's  Sunday  coat, 
than  in  all  her  long  years  of  waiting.  As  the  years  went 
on,  it  was  sometimes  with  a  sad  heart  that  Maria  stood 
and  watched  the  poor  lonely  old  figure  moving  slower 
than  ever  down  the  street  to  his  lonely  home ;  but  the 
heart  was  sad  for  him  always,  and  never  for  herself. 

Only  in  the  end,  when  he  lies  dying  in  his  solitary 
house  and  she  is  summoned  to  his  bedside,  does 
the  approach  of  the  great  silence  of  death  unlock 
the  dumbness  of  his  breast: 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  strange  wonder  in  his 
glazing  eyes.  "Maria" — a  thin,  husky  voice,  that  was 
more  like  a  wind  through  dry  cornstalks,  said — "Maria, 
I  'm  dyin',  an' — I  allers  meant  to — have  asked  you — to — 
marry  me." 

Is  it  fanciful  to  say  that  this  story  has  the 
shadowy  pathos  of  emotions  long  ago  fought 
against  and  overcome?  The  tragedy  of  New 
England  came  when  Hawthorne  wrought  the 
self-denial  of  the  ancient  religion  into  a  symbol 
of  man's  universal  isolation,  when  out  of  the 
deliberate  contemning  of  common  affections  he 


1 84  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

created  the  search  for  the  Unpardonable  Sin. 
In  the  pages  of  Mrs.  Freeman  we  hear  only  an 
echo,  we  revive  a  fading  memory,  of  that  sombre 
tragedy.  Ethan  Brand  was  a  problem  of  the 
will,  a  question  of  morality;  the  tale  of  the  Two 
Old  Lovers  is  a  sad  picture  of  palsied  nerves. 

The  latest  volume  of  Mrs.  Freeman's  sketches 
treats  the  same  theme,  with  this  difference,  how- 
ever, that  here  it  is  the  woman  who  abandons  her 
lover  for  many  years,  returning  to  him  only  when 
both  are  grown  old  and  past  the  age  of  spon- 
taneous pleasures.  There  is  perhaps  some  soften- 
ing of  tone,  a  kindlier  feeling  that  into  this  strange 
desolation  of  the  heart  some  consolation  of  the 
spirit  may  descend  with  chastened  joy.  Hardly 
in  the  earlier  books,  I  think,  will  one  find  any 
picture  of  the  possible  mellowing  effect  of  solitude 
comparable  to  this  description  of  the  waiting 
lover: 

He  was  a  happy  man,  in  spite  of  the  unfulfilled  natural 
depths  of  his  life.  His  great  sweetness  of  nature  had 
made  even  of  the  legitimate  hunger  of  humanity  a  bless- 
ing for  the  promoting  of  spiritual  growth.  It  had  fos- 
tered within  him  that  grand  acquiescence  which  is  the 
essence  of  perfect  freedom. 

But  beautiful  as  this  grand  acqiiiescence  may  be, 
it  is  not  in  that  direction  lies  the  real  freedom  of 
New  England  life  or  literature.  Rather  shall  the 
deliverance  come  in  the  way  hinted  at  in  that 
other  phrase,  the  hunger  of  humanity.     The  whole 


HAWTHORNE  1 85 

progress  from  Cotton  Mather  to  Mrs.  Freeman 
was  determined  by  the  original  attempt  to  stamp 
out  that  legitimate  hunger  for  the  sake  of  an  all- 
absorbing  pride  of  the  spirit.  And  now,  when  the 
spirit,  after  having  been  victorious  in  the  long 
warfare,  has  itself  starved  away  and  left  the  bar- 
renness of  a  dreary  stagnation,  the  natural  reversal 
may  well  be  looked  for,  and  we  may  expect  the 
hunger  of  humanity  to  grow  up  out  of  the  waste, 
untempered  by  spiritual  ideals.  Already  in  the 
New  England  of  Hawthorne,  in  the  exaggerated 
sentimentalism  of  the  abolitionists  and  a  thousand 
other  reforming  sects,  this  movement  had  begun. 
Hawthorne  himself,  despite  his  humorous  in- 
sight and  his  aloofness  from  the  currents  of  life 
about  him,  did  not  wholly  escape  its  influence. 
Through  the  dark  pages  of  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  moves  the  hopeful  figure  of  young  Hol- 
grave,  the  daguerreotypist.  To  him,  says  Haw- 
thorne, thinking  no  doubt  of  the  burden  that 
weighed  on  his  own  imagination,  it  seemed  "  that 
in  this  age,  more  than  ever  before,  the  moss-grown 
and  rotten  Past  is  to  be  torn  down,  and  lifeless 
institutions  to  be  thrust  out  of  the  way,  and  their 
dead  corpses  buried,  and  everything  to  begin 
anew."  There  is  a  world  of  significance  in  the 
analysis  which  follows  of  Holgrave's  restless  and 
ardent  nature,  of  his  generous  impulses,  that 
might  solidify  him  into  the  champion  of  some 
practical  cause.  He  is  the  type  of  a  whole  race  of 
men  who  were  to  take  revenge  on  the  despotism 


186  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

of  the  spirit  by  casting  it  out  altogether  for  the 
idealised  demands  of  the  hunger  of  humanity. 

But  what  was  foreshadowed  in  Hawthorne 
becomes  the  one  dominant  human  note  of  Mrs. 
Freeman's  stories,  heard  through  the  desert  si- 
lence that  otherwise  encompasses  her  characters. 
This  vision  of  a  growing  humanitarianism  that 
shall  awaken  new  motives  for  healthy,  active  life 
and  feed  the  hunger  of  the  heart  is  the  real  theme 
of  the  best  of  her  novels,  yerome.  There  is  a  scene 
in  that  book  where  the  hero,  beaten  and  marred 
by  hard  circumstance,  suddenly  gives  vent  in  his 
awkward,  unschooled  manner  to  the  late-born  re- 
calcitrance against  the  tyranny  of  Providence: 

What  was  it  to  the  moon  and  all  those  shining  swarms 
of  stars,  and  that  far  star-dust  in  the  Milky  Way,  whether 
he,  Jerome  Edwards,  had  shoes  to  close  or  not?  Whether 
he  and  his  mother  starved  or  not,  they  would  shine  just 
the  same.  .  .  .  He  was  maddened  at  the  sting  and 
despite  of  his  own  littleuess  in  the  face  of  that  greatness. 
Suddenly  a  wild  impulse  of  rebellion  that  was  almost 
blasphemy  seized  him.  He  clinched  a  puny  fist  at  a 
great  star.  "Wish  I  could  make  you  stop  shinin',"  he 
cried  out,  in  a  loud,  fierce  voice;  "wish  I  could  do 
somethiu' !" 

And  then,  later,  comes  the  companion  scene, 
again  under  the  cold  eyes  of  the  heavens,  when 
the  final  determination  takes  shape  before  him 
and  he  sees  at  last  the  work  which  the  world 
holds  for  him: 

A  great  passion  of  love  and  sympathy  for  the  needy 
and  oppressed  of  his  kind,   and  an  ardent  defence  of 


HAWTHORNE  187 

them,  came  upon  Jerome  Edwards,  poor  young  shoe- 
maker, going  home  with  his  sack  of  meal  over  his  shoul- 
der. Like  a  bird,  which  in  the  spring  views  every  little 
straw  and  twig  as  toward  his  nest  and  purpose  of  love, 
Jerome  would  henceforth  regard  all  powers  and  instru- 
mentalities that  came  in  his  way  only  in  their  bearing 
upon  his  great  end  of  life. 

We  have  followed  the  development  of  that  half- 
civilisation  which  moulded  New  England  from  the 
religious  enthusiasm  of  Cott6n  Mather,  through 
the  tragic  art  of  Hawthorne,  down  to  the  pathetic 
paralysis  portrayed  in  these  stories  of  a  living 
writer.  We  have  seen  a  morbid  spirituality, 
spurning  the  common  nourishment  of  mankind, 
slowly  starve  itself  into  impotence.  Now,  as  the 
hunger  of  humanity  begins  to  assert  itself  un- 
hampered by  any  vision  beyond  its  own  impor- 
tunate needs,  are  we  to  behold  a  new  ideal  create 
in  turn  another  half-civilisation,  blindly  material- 
istic as  its  predecessor  was  harshly  spiritual  ? 
That  question  may  not  be  lightly  answered. 
Only  it  is  clear  that,  for  the  present,  the  way  of 
growth  for  the  literature  of  New  England  lies 
through  the  opening  of  this  door  of  strictly  human 
sympathies. 


DELPHI  AND  GREEK  LITERATURE 

The  wise  Greek  was  taught  to  judge  the  poets 
of  his  land  according  to  their  influence  on  char- 
acter, and  to  ask  first  whether  they  made  men 
better  in  the  cities.  Only  with  Aristotle,  when 
poetry  ceases  to  be  an  organic  part  of  civic  life, 
do  we  find  criticism  that  approaches  the  dreary 
canon  of  "  art  for  art's  sake."  So  keen  indeed 
was  this  sense  of  moral  responsibility  that  Homer 
himself  did  not  escape  frequent  censure  for  his 
picture  of  the  easy-living  gods,  and  Plato,  recalling 
complacently  "the  ancient  difference  between 
philosophy  and  poetry,"  would  banish  the  singers 
from  his  ideal  state.  Even  the  analytic  mind  of 
the  Greeks  had  not  effected  a  divorce  between 
ethics  and  aesthetics;  and  on  our  part  we  may  as- 
sume that  a  true  appreciation  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  their  literature  arose,  and  of  the  in- 
fluence it  exercised  on  this  beauty-loving  people, 
as  indeed  any  sound  criticism  of  the  literature 
itself,  must  start  from  a  sufficient  study  of  the 
ethical  ideas  it  sought  to  convey. 

It  may  be  surmised  at  the  outset  of  such  a  study 
that  Homer  and  his  successors  are  pre-eminent 
artists,  not  by  reason  of  form  alone,  but  because 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK   LITERATURE        1 89 

they  also  embody  more  truth,  more  wise  reflection 
— in  short,  because  they  present  a  fairer  criticism 
of  life — than  is  readily  to  be  found  elsewhere.  It 
is  a  contradiction  that  Homer  and  Sophocles 
should  be  reckoned  unsurpassed  as  poets,  and 
their  views  of  life  be  regarded  as  immature  and 
incapable  of  instruction  for  our  more  experienced 
age.  Better  were  it  to  accept  at  once  the  standard 
of  Greece,  and  judge  by  their  ethical  import  the 
poets  she  was  wont  to  honour  as  sages.  If  en- 
couragement were  needed  for  examining  these 
ancient  works  with  such  seriousness,  it  might  be 
found  in  the  supposition  that  in  our  own  land  no 
important  revival,  or  shall  we  say  creation,  of 
literature  is  likely  to  arise  except  from  a  renas- 
cence of  interest  in  Greek;  and  that  further  such 
a  study  may  throw  a  curious  light  on  the  religious 
and  moral  confusion  now  troubling  our  minds. 
For  we  have  "  traversed  many  paths  in  the  wan- 
derings of  thought,"  and  like  Odysseus  of  old 
have  reached  an  iEaean  island,  where  we  know 
neither  the  rising  nor  the  setting  of  the  sun  and 
doubt  if  there  be  any  counsel  for  us.  We,  too, 
like  the  companions  of  Odysseus,  may  meet  with 
some  Circe  to  change  us  into  bestial  shapes,  un- 
less a  god  intervene  with  help. 

Granted  then  that  Greek  literature  owes  its  ex- 
cellence largely  to  its  ethical  content,  the  question 
first  arises:  Was  there  any  one  precept,  any  one 
phase  of  moral  truth,  so  constantly  before  the 
people  as  to  become  a  master  law  to  which  the 


I90  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

particular  rules  of  conduct  may  be  referred  back, 
and  of  which  literature  and  art  may  be  regarded 
as  the  manifold  expression  ?  Now  it  was  the 
established  custom  of  the  Greeks  themselves, 
when  about  to  undertake  a  hazardous  voyage  of 
conquest  or  discover}',  to  consult  the  oracle  of 
Apollo  at  Delphi.  The  gifts  through  centuries 
of  grateful  kings  and  states  had  made  Delphi  one 
of  the  great  treasure  houses  of  the  world.  So 
numerous  were  the  works  of  art  collected  here, 
that  even  after  the  depredations  of  Sulla  and 
Nero  it  still  displayed  three  thousand  statues  in 
the  time  of  Pliny;  and  in  the  days  of  its  glory  it 
must  have  delighted  the  religious  pilgrim  with 
more  beauty  than  can  be  seen  now  in  all  the 
galleries  of  Europe.  The  spot  was  well  chosen 
for  the  oracle  of  Greece.  We  may  imagine 
the  traveller,  anxious  at  heart  perhaps  with  the 
question  he  was  to  propound,  climbing  up  the 
mountain  side  from  Cirrha  on  the  gulf,  or  wind- 
ing westward  along  the  inland  road  that  followed 
the  valley  of  the  Pleistus.  He  had  been  taught 
to  regard  the  high  hills  as  the  peculiar  dwelling- 
place  of  the  gods,  and  to  believe  that  each  globe 
of  mist  hovering  on  a  lonely  summit  might  veil 
the  bodily  presence  of  a  divinity.  The  wild 
scenery  of  Parnassus,  with  its  misty  hollows  and 
twin  peaks  rising  into  the  sky,  was  calculated  to 
exalt  his  religious  mood  to  a  state  of  reverent 
enthusiasm.  It  was  remarked  that  even  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  place  had  a  peculiarly  subtile, 


DELPHI   AND    GREEK    LITERATURE       191 

Diting  quality  which  affected  strangely  the  bronze 
of  statuary;  and  this  may  have  been  a  physical 
stimulus  to  the  mind  also.  What  must  have  been 
the  feeling  of  admiration  when  the  temple  with 
its  marble  front  first  came  into  view.  Euripides 
in  one  of  his  most  exquisite  scenes  represents  a 
band  of  Athenian  women  coming  to  the  shrine  in 
the  early  dawn.  Ion,  the  child  of  Apollo  and 
dedicated  from  birth  to  the  service  of  the  god,  is 
seen .  sweeping  with  laurel  boughs  the  vestibule 
and  sprinkling  the  pavement  with  lustral  water 
brought  in  golden  pitchers  from  the  Castalian 
fount.  Now  with  threatening  arrows  he  drives 
away  the  polluting  birds  that  would  nest  under 
the  eaves,  and  again  and  again  he  cries  out  in 
joy  — 

O  Paean,  Paean,  thou  from  Leto  sprung, 
Forever  be  thou  blest,  forever  young! 

The  chorus  of  Athenian  women  appears  winding 
up  toward  the  temple.  They  are  rapt  in  wonder 
at  the  rich  scene  unfolded  before  them:  one  after 
another  they  point  to  the  statues  of  Hercules 
slaying  the  Hydra  while  Iolaus  stands  by  with 
kindled  torch;  of  Bellerophon  on  the  winged 
horse,  smiting  the  monstrous  Chimaera;  of  the 
gods  engaged  in  battle  with  the  giants.  To  be- 
hold this  unravaged  beauty  with  the  Athenian 
women  under  the  morning  sky  must  have  been  a 
joy  such  as  the  modern  world  can  hardly  equal. 
If  we  had  undertaken  to  enter  into  the  temple, 


192  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

we  should  have  been  met  at  the  threshold  by  the 
greeting  of  the  god.  It  is  recorded  that  on  the 
columns  were  inscribed  the  wisest  proverbs  of 
the  land;  and  these  were  taken  to  be  Apollo's 
welcome  to  his  visitor.  Several  of  these  sentences 
we  know,  and  two  of  them  are  distinguished  by- 
later  writers  as  of  the  deepest  import  to  Greek 
philosophy.  So  Plutarch  somewhere  alludes  to 
them.  "Consider,"  he  says,  "  these  inscriptions, 
Know  thyself  and  Nothing  too  much  ;  how  many 
philosophical  discussions  they  have  called  forth, 
and  how  great  a  multitude  of  words  has  sprung 
from  each  as  from  a  seed."  Plato  was  never  tired 
of  quoting  them;  especially  in  the  Charmidcs  he 
weaves  them  into  his  argument  on  temperance 
with  admirable  skill  (164  D;  Jowett):  "And  in 
this  I  agree  with  him  who  dedicated  the  inscrip- 
tion, '  Know  thyself! '  at  Delphi.  That  word,  if 
I  am  not  mistaken,  is  put  there  as  a  sort  of  salu- 
tation which  the  god  addresses  to  those  who  enter 
the  temple;  as  much  as  to  say  the  ordinary  salu- 
tation of  '  Hail! '  is  not  right,  and  that  the  exhor- 
tation '  Be  temperate! '  would  be  a  far  better  way 
of  saluting  one  another.  The  notion  of  him  who 
dedicated  the  inscription  was,  as  I  believe,  that 
the  god  speaks  to  those  who  enter  his  temple  not 
as  men  speak;  but,  when  a  worshipper  enters,  the 
first  word  he  hears  is  '  Be  temperate! '  This, 
however,  like  a  prophet  he  expresses  in  a  sort  of 
riddle,  for  '  Know  thyself! '  and  '  Be  temperate! ' 
are  the  same,  as  I  maintain,  and  as  the  letters  im- 


DELPHI    AND    GREEK    LITERATURE       I93 

ply,  and  yet  they  may  be  easily  misunderstood; 
and  succeeding  sages  who  added  '  Nothing  too 
much,'  or  '  Give  a  pledge,  and  evil  is  nigh  at 
hand,'  would  appear  to  have  so  misunderstood 
them;  for  they  imagined  that  'Know  thyself!' 
was  a  piece  of  advice  which  the  god  gave,  and 
not  his  salutation  of  the  worshippers  at  their  first 
coming  in;  and  they  dedicated  their  own  inscrip- 
tion under  the  idea  that  they  too  would  give 
equally  useful  pieces  of  advice."  So  far  the 
Charmides ;  elsewhere  Plato  writes  (Protag.,  343 
B):  "And  they  [the  seven  Sages]  met  together 
and  dedicated  in  the  temple  of  Apollo  at  Delphi, 
as  the  first-fruits  of  their  wisdom,  the  far-famed 
inscriptions,  which  are  in  all  men's  mouths, 
'  Know  thyself '  and  '  Nothing  too  much.'  "  We 
have  come  to  the  god  for  instruction;  let  us  accept 
his  words  of  salutation  for  the  advice  desired.  If 
Apollo  ma}r  be  trusted,  in  these  two  brief  commands 
we  shall  find  a  sure  guide  for  our  proposed  study. 

Fortunately  we  need  not  stop  here  to  discuss 
the  authorship  of  these  apothegms.  They  were 
ascribed  to  various  members  of  the  fabulous  guild 
of  Sages,  or  even  to  a  period  antedating  that 
august  body.  Indeed,  there  was  a  tradition, 
fostered  no  doubt  by  the  priests,  that  Apollo  him- 
self was  the  author  of  "  Know  thyself."  At  any 
rate  the  guardians  of  the  oracle,  by  writing  the 
words  on  the  temple,  had  assumed  the  responsi- 
bility of  them  for  the  god. 

Neither  is  their  significance  hard  to  discover. 

VOL.  II. 13. 


194  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

"  Nothing  too  much  "  is  the  rule  of  outward  con- 
duct. It  does  not  say,  This  thou  shalt  do,  and 
that  thou  shalt  not  do;  but  rather  in  the  words 
of  Saint  Paul,  "  All  things  are  lawful  unto  me, 
but  all  things  are  not  expedient:  all  things  are 
lawful  for  me,  but  I  will  not  be  brought  under  the 
power  of  any."  Evil,  accordingly,  is  not  essen- 
tially inherent  in  particular  acts;  but  the  carrying 
of  any  act  to  excess  is  transgression;  failure  to 
strike  the  true  mean  is  error;  and  we  shall  find 
that  transgression  or  error  is  rebuked  as  due  more 
often  to  ignorance  than  to  malevolence.  Evil  is 
commonly  regarded  not  as  sin  committed  wilfully 
against  divine  law,  but  as  harm  done  to  self  or 
to  the  community  by  ill-regulated  conduct.  In 
manners  this  leads  easily  to  the  ideal  of  V 'honnete 
homme  qui  ne  se  pique  de  rien.  A  perfect  gentle- 
man was  shown  by  balance  in  acquisition  and 
comportment:  he  might  not  even  learn  music  too 
well,  lest  he  should  mar  the  just  proportion  of 
attainments.  Thus  even  what  is  good  may  be 
desired  in  excess,  and  we  have  in  Greece  the 
warning  solemnly  emphasised  by  Ecclesiastes : 
"  Be  not  righteous  over  much,  neither  make  thy- 
self over  wise."  Regarding  man's  position  in 
the  world,  too  great  prosperity  also  has  its  danger 
and  may  awaken  the  jealousy  of  the  gods.  This 
sentiment  pervades  the  histories  of  Herodotus, 
and  is  the  subject  of  that  famous  letter  to  Poly- 
crates:  "  It  is  sweet  to  learn  the  good  fortune  of 
a  friend  united  to  us  by  ties  of  hospitality;  yet  I 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK    LITERATURE       195 

am  not  content  with  thy  great  prosperity,  know- 
ing the  envy  of  the  divine  nature;  and  I  may  say 
I  wish — both  for  myself  and  my  connections — to 
speed  here  and  to  fail  there  in  my  doings,  with 
chequered  fortune.  ...  Be  therefore  per- 
suaded of  me  and  do  as  I  bid  in  respect  of  thy 
prosperity.  Consider  what  thou  mayst  find  of 
highest  value  to  thee,  and  what  if  lost  would 
bring  greatest  regret  to  thy  heart,  and  this  cast 
away  from  thee,  so  as  it  shall  never  again  be  seen 
among  men."  The  same  thought  is  common 
enough  in  the  writers  of  the  period,  however  the 
quaintness  of  its  form  here  is  peculiar  to  the 
historian.  The  dramas  of  iEschylus  repeat  over 
and  over  again  the  same  warning  against  over- 
ripe prosperity  whose  offspring  are  insolence  and 
blindness  of  heart  and  avenging  calamity.  In 
the  proper  place  it  would  be  a  fruitful  exercise  to 
compare  this  idea  as  presented  by  the  tragedian 
and  by  the  historian.  In  statecraft  Solon  had 
raised  it  to  be  the  cause  of  eunomy,  or  good  gov- 
ernment, "which,"  as  he  says,  "should  make 
order  and  harmony  to  rule  everywhere;  which 
should  bind  with  chains  the  evil,  make  smooth 
the  rough,  lower  false  pride,  restrain  violence, 
and  nip  the  flowers  of  calamity  in  the  bud;  .  .  . 
and  under  her  sway  all  things  among  men  should 
become  harmonious  and  reasonable."  Theognis 
and  others  have  the  same  ideal  always  before 
them:  indeed  it  arises  naturally  enough  from 
human  experience. 


196  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

As  this  principle  of  moderation  sums  up  the 
empirical  wisdom  of  Greek  literature,  so  it  is  the 
formal  law  of  the  poet  and  artist.  "In  der  Be- 
schrankung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister,"  writes 
Goethe.  In  the  strict  setting  of  bounds  to  his 
own  faculties  and  to  his  subject-matter,  we  may 
perhaps  find  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  Greek 
artist,  as  form  resulting  from  proportion  of  parts 
is  the  supreme  excellence  of  his  work.  This 
voluntary  limitation  is  everywhere  discoverable. 
In  language  its  result  is  a  sharp  distinction  in 
style;  prose  and  poetry  have  their  separate  vo- 
cabularies, and  each  branch  of  the  latter  has  its 
appropriate  dialect.  It  penetrates  still  deeper 
into  style  and  causes  that  justness  of  emphasis, 
that  avoidance  of  undue  stress  which  attaches  to 
the  word  classic.  In  treatment  of  the  subject- 
matter  the  result  is  no  less  marked.  Thucydides 
and  Sophocles  are  both  Athenians  and  contempo- 
raries, yet  they  seem  to  speak  from  two  different 
worlds,  so  sharply  defined  are  the  aims  of  historian 
and  poet.  Furthermore,  each  department  of  verse 
has  its  own  laws  and  themes  which  together 
cover  the  range  of  human  experience,  yet  never 
intermingle.  A  still  deeper  limitation  is  observed. 
Only  those  subjects  and  ideas  are  treated  which 
can  be  fully  and  luminously  expressed;  vague 
thoughts,  fleeting  emotions,  shadowy  similitudes, 
everything  that  would  blur  the  general  outline, 
— la  nuance,  in  short,  is  voluntarily  renounced. 
Hence,   however  other   literatures   may  compare 


DELPHI    AND    GREEK    LITERATURE        IQ7 

with  the  Greek  in  respect  of  content,  depth  of 
thought,  breadth  of  experience,  and  fineness  of 
feeling,  yet  in  formal  beauty  at  least  the  master 
writers  of  Hellas  have  had  no  rivals.  By  a  sort 
of  racial  instinct  they  are  led  to  avoid  excess  of 
any  kind.  This  law  of  limitation  sometimes  pro- 
duces in  the  works  of  lesser  men  a  meagreness 
and  jejuneness  irritating  to  the  modern  reader; 
but  in  the  masterpieces  of  the  true  artists,  who 
sounded  the  national  consciousness,  and  who 
were  strong  enough  to  hold  their  ideas  and  mould 
them  at  will,  it  has  brought  about  a  perfect  bal- 
ance and  poise  comparable  only  to  the  sculpture 
of  the  same  land.  Shakespeare  may, with  Homer, 
stand  apart  from  other  poets.  They  rise  together 
into  the  sky  like  the  twin  peaks  of  Parnassus, 
and  in  them  the  Old  World  and  the  New  meet 
with  equal  and  sufficient  champions.  We  read 
Shakespeare  and  are  lost  in  amazement  at  the 
boundless  fertility  of  the  human  mind.  Every 
word  is  a  metaphor,  and  all  the  emotions  and 
thoughts  of  the  heart  chase  one  another  through 
his  lines.  But  sometimes,  may  it  be  confessed, 
we  turn  with  a  feeling  almost  of  relief  from  the 
unrestrained  exuberance  of  the  modern  genius 
to  the  simplicity  and  graceful  self-control  of  the 
ancient.  At  first,  it  may  be,  we  miss  in  the 
older  poem  certain  profounder  voices  of  the  soul 
that  speak  of  moral  claims  and  experience  won 
by  centuries  of  suffering;  we  call  the  Greek  shal- 
low.    But  if  the  real  depth  of  a  poem  is  to  be 


I98  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

measured  by  its  grasp  on  the  essential  passions  of 
humanity,  there  will  be  found  in  Homer  a  truth- 
fulness and  vividness  in  presenting  these  that  may 
rival  Shakespeare  himself,  while  man's  relation- 
ship to  the  divine  world  about  and  the  dark  mys- 
teries below  is  pictured  with  a  simplicity  that 
lends  unparalleled  beauty  to  human  activity,  and 
with  a  depth  of  wisdom,  of  which  forgetfulness 
and  long  sophistication  have  to-day  almost  de- 
prived us. 

"  Nothing  too  much  "  was  the  law  of  the  artist 
in  his  effort  to  create;  so  in  abstract  terms  it  de- 
fined for  the  philosopher  the  process  of  cosmic 
creation,  or  ceaseless  becoming,  as  he  would 
have  called  it.  On  the  other  hand,  from  a  rule 
of  prudential  wisdom  it  passed  readily  into  the 
ethics  of  the  schools.  Beginning  with  Pythagoras, 
its  influence  down  through  Aristotle  may  be  un- 
erringly traced  in  a  variety  of  forms.  Only  with 
this  key  can  we  unlock  the  strange  doctrine  of 
Pythagoras  (strange  to  us  but  perfectly  simple  to 
his  countrymen)  regarding  the  finite  and  the  in- 
finite. The  finite  is  good  because  bounded  by 
just  limits;  the  infinite  is  bad  because  it  escapes 
these  limits.  Numbers  are  the  expression  of 
quantity  and  limitation,  and  as  such  produce 
the  famous  Pythagorean  harmony  ruling  in  the 
heavens  and  in  man.  Akin  to  this  conception  is 
the  formal  cause  of  Aristotle,  between  which  and 
the  earlier  theory  stand  the  ideas  of  Plato  as  a 
mediating    ground.       Matter,    according   to    the 


DELPHI    AND   GREEK    LITERATURE       I99 

Stagirite,  is  eternal  and  formless,  form  is  eternal 
and  substanceless;  from  the  union  of  these,  that 
is,  from  the  law  of  limitation,  springs  the  world 
fashioned  harmoniously,  as  we  behold  it.  And 
the  final  cause,  which  is  the  aim  and  purpose  of 
this  union,  will  be  satisfied  when  this  infinite 
amorphous  matter  is  completely  subjected  to 
form. 

If,  morally,  "  Nothing  too  much"  receives  its 
ultimate  expression  in  the  ethics  of  Aristotle, 
where  every  virtue  becomes  a  mean  between  two 
vices,  the  one  of  excess,  the  other  of  deficiency, 
the  sister  saying,  "  Know  thyself,"  may  be  held 
to  attain  its  full  development  in  the  mystic  phi- 
losophy of  Plato.  So  in  the  Phczdrus  we  read: 
"  I  must  first  know  myself,  as  the  Delphian  in- 
scription says;  to  be  curious  about  that  which  is 
not  my  concern,  while  I  am  still  in  ignorance  of 
my  own  self,  would  be  ridiculous."  Self-know- 
ledge in  the  Academy  became  the  beginning  and 
end  of  philosophic  discipline.  In  this  sense  it 
may  be  taken  to  express  the  inner  spiritual  phase 
of  Greek  life,  just  as  the  "  golden  mean"  gives 
the  model  of  outward  practical  conduct.  Yet 
how  closely  the  two  formulas  are  related  may  be 
seen  in  the  very  philosophers  who  represent  the 
extreme  of  each.  The  argument  of  Plato's  Re- 
public amounts  to  this:  By  self-knowledge  we 
learn  the  nature  of  the  soul  and  of  the  three  facul- 
ties working  together  in  it.  Consequently  upon 
such  knowledge  each  faculty  performs  duly  its 


200  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

proper  function  and  attains  its  respective  virtue, 
— the  rational  faculty  being  thus  distinguished  by 
wisdom,  the  will  by  courage,  the  sensuous  nature 
by  temperance.  The  fourth  virtue,  justice,  is 
still  to  be  accounted  for.  This  must  be  the  har- 
monious interaction  of  the  three  faculties,  each 
working  within  strict  bounds  and  not  encroaching 
on  the  function  of  the  other  two.  The  highest 
virtue,  then,  which  practically  includes  the  others, 
is  no  more  than  the  application  of  the  Delphian 
"  Nothing  too  much  "  to  the  soul  itself.  On  the 
other  hand,  Aristotle's  ethical  theory  may  be 
summed  up  as  follows:  Each  virtue  is  defined  as 
the  golden  mean  between  two  vices;  activity  of 
the  soul  in  accordance  with  virtue  is  happiness; 
and  happiness  is  the  end  of  life.  The  supreme 
happiness  is  such  activity  of  the  highest  faculty 
of  the  soul,  that  is,  the  reason:  man  cannot  dwell 
continuously  and  absolutely  in  this  activity,  but 
can  only  aim  to  approach  such  a  state.  Its  attain- 
ment is  the  contemplative  life  of  the  deity  passed 
in  self- reflection;  and  this  may  be  called  his  distin- 
guishing virtue,  for  of  him  activity  toward  others 
cannot  be  predicated.  Curiously,  Plato  starts 
from  self-knowledge  and  ends  with  ' '  Nothing  too 
much";  his  rival  begins  with  the  latter  and  ar- 
rives at  self-knowledge.  One  proceeds  from 
within  outward;  the  other  argues  from  conduct 
inward. 

But  this  clear  distinction,  by  which  the  two 
apothegms  express  the  inner  and  outer  faces  of 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK   LITERATURE       201 

the  same  truth,  arose  only  after  subtle  analysis 
had  been  brought  to  bear  on  them.  Primarily 
they  were  used  almost  without  discrimination,  as 
is  evident  from  the  passage  of  Plato's  Charmides 
quoted  above.  "  Know  thyself"  at  first  meant 
simply,  Know  thy  place  in  this  world  as  a  man 
among  men,  and  as  a  mortal  subject  to  the  im- 
mortal gods;  be  moderate,  aim  not  too  high. 
Abundant  illustration  of  this  might  be  offered. 
Such,  for  example,  is  the  meaning  of  the  words 
when  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  seven  Sages,  as 
may  be  proved  from  the  number  of  proverbs  that 
contain  the  same  admonition  in  different  forms, 
Periander's  warning  command,  "Think  as  a 
mortal,"  being  perhaps  the  clearest  exposition 
of  the  thought.  The  worldly  Simonides  is  said 
to  have  given  similar  advice  to  Pausanias,  "  Re- 
member thou  art  a  man," — words  whose  signifi- 
cance was  revealed  only  too  clearly  to  the 
overweening  general  in  his  last  imprisonment. 
The  same  lesson  is  conveyed  in  the  story  of 
Croesus  as  told  by  Herodotus;  and  Xenophon, 
doubtless  with  a  reminiscence  of  the  famous  dia- 
logue of  the  earlier  historian,  relates  of  the  same 
prince  that  he  asked  the  Delphian  oracle  in  what 
way  he  might  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life 
happily,  and  received  this  answer: 

Knowing  thyself,  O  Croesus,  thou  shalt  pass  through  life 
happy. 

Croesus  rejoiced  on  hearing  this,  and  thought  it 


202  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

an  easy  task;  others  we  may  know,  or  may  not, 
but  any  man  may  know  himself.  Only  after  his 
defeat  by  Cyrus  did  he  recognise  his  error;  for  in 
attempting  to  strive  with  so  great  a  foe  he  had 
proved  his  own  self-ignorance.  Similarly  one  01 
Plutarch's  characters  in  sportive  conversation  de- 
clares that  Homer  was  the  author  of  these  pro- 
verbs, and  maintains  that  Hector  knew  himself, 
who  attacked  others  but  "  avoided  combat  with 
Telamonian  Ajax." 

These  illustrations  will  show  how  the  primitive 
meaning  of  the  injunction  persisted  into  a  late 
age.  Yet  its  deeper  spiritual  force  had  been 
partly  recognised  almost  a  century  before  the 
revolution  introduced  by  Socrates  and  the 
sophists.  Thus  we  read  in  Plutarch:  "And 
Heracleitus,  as  if  he  had  done  some  great  and 
serious  thing,  says  '  I  searched  out  myself  ;  and 
of  the  inscriptions  at  Delphi  this  seemed  to  him 
the  most  divine,  '  Know  thyself.'  '  Aristotle 
assures  us  it  was  from  the  Ephesian  sage  that 
Socrates  derived  his  peculiar  use  of  the  words; 
and  we  may  see  for  ourselves  that  the  sophists,  so 
far  at  least  as  they  are  represented  by  Protagoras, 
follow  the  same  master.  To  Heracleitus  imper- 
manence  was  the  law  of  existence;  like  the  water 
of  a  stream  all  things  pass  away,  and  are  yet  the 
same.  But  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  he  con- 
nected this  physical  theory  with  his  boasted  self- 
searching.  It  remained  for  the  sophists  to  effect 
this   unholy   alliance.      Studying    man's  nature, 


DELPHI    AND    GREEK    LITERATURE       203 

Protagoras  finds  that  the  impermanence  of  phe- 
nomena is  but  a  reflection  of  the  instability  of  the 
soul  looking  out  upon  them,  for  man  is  the 
measure  of  all  things.  Know  thyself,  and  thou 
knowest  what  is  true  to  thee — for  the  time  being 
at  least;  but  to  another  man  there  is  another 
truth.  Verity  itself,  like  the  physical  world,  be- 
comes thus  a  matter  of  perpetual  flux  and  change; 
and  the  wisdom  of  Delphi  is  made  the  law  of 
shifting  impressionism,  whether  in  philosoph)'  or 
art  or  conduct.  Plato  would  consider  this  sophis- 
tical skepticism  the  outcome  of  a  long  line  of 
ancestors.  His  argument  is  quaintly  expressed 
(Thccet.  152  D):  "I  am  about  to  speak  of  a  high 
argument,  in  which  all  things  are  said  to  be  rela- 
tive; you  cannot  rightly  call  anything  by  any 
name,  such  as  great  or  small,  heavy  or  light,  for 
the  great  will  be  small  and  the  heavy  light — there 
is  no  single  thing  or  quality,  but  out  of  motion 
and  change  and  admixture  all  things  are  becom- 
ing relatively  to  one  another,  which  '  becoming ' 
is  by  us  incorrectly  called  being,  but  is  really  be- 
coming, for  nothing  ever  is,  but  all  things  are 
becoming.  Summon  all  philosophers, —  Protago- 
ras, Heracleitus,  Empedocles,  and  the  rest  of 
them,  one  after  another,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  Parmenides,  they  will  agree  with  you  in  this. 
Summon  the  great  masters  of  either  kind  of 
poetr}' — Epicharmus,  the  prince  of  Comedy,  and 
Homer  of  Tragedy;  when  the  latter  sings  of 

Ocean  whence  sprang  the  gods,  and  mother  Tethys — 


204  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

does  he  not  mean  that  all  things  are  the  offspring 
of  flux  and  motion  ?  " 

Compare  with  this  flower  01  impressionism 
Socrates,  who  also  in  a  different  way  made  man 
the  measure  of  all  things.  Protagoras  isolates 
the  individual;  there  is  no  spiritual  law  binding 
soul  to  soul;  hence  there  is  no  truth  but  merely 
shifting  opinion.  Socrates  would  find  in  man  a 
spirit  which  associates  him  with  the  divine  powers; 
hidden  in  himself  he  thought  to  discover  eternal 
precepts  of  wisdom,  the  same  for  all  men  because 
springing  in  all  from  the  same  source:  Know 
thyself,  and  thou  knowest  the  truth  of  the  gods. 
So  much  I  think  we  may  assert  of  the  positive 
teaching  of  Socrates;  although  the  words,  "Know 
thyself,"  still  retained  something  of  their  simpler 
primitive  meaning,  for  they  were  to  him  an  ad- 
monition of  man's  presumptuous  ignorance.  But 
their  positive  force,  more  or  less  latent  in  the 
master,  is  found  fully  developed  in  the  disciple 
Plato.  So,  for  example,  in  the  First  Alcibiades 
we  read:  "  But  how  can  we  have  a  perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  things  of  the  soul  ?  For  if  we  know 
them,  then  I  suppose  that  we  shall  know  our- 
selves. Can  we  really  be  ignorant  of  the  excel- 
lent meaning  of  the  Delphian  inscription  of  which 
we  were  just  now  speaking  ?  .  .  .  And  if  the 
soul,  my  dear  Alcibiades,  is  ever  to  know  herself, 
must  she  not  look  at  the  soul;  and  especially  at 
that  part  of  the  soul  in  which  her  virtue  resides, 
and  at  any  other  which  is  like  this  ?    .     .    .    And 


DELPHI   AND    GREEK    LITERATURE       205 

do  we  know  of  any  part  of  our  souls  more  divine 
than  that  which  has  to  do  with  wisdom  and 
knowledge  ?  .  .  .  Then  this  is  that  part  of 
the  soul  which  resembles  the  divine,  and  he  who 
looks  at  this  and  at  the  whole  class  of  things 
divine,  will  be  most  likely  to  know  himself.  .  .  . 
And  self-knowledge  we  agree  to  be  wisdom." 

Socrates  and  the  sophists  mark  a  revolution  in 
Greek  thought;  with  them  the  mind  is  first  turned 
inward  on  herself,  and  self-consciousness  becomes 
an  inheritance  of  the  race.  It  may  be  a  matter 
of  sad  reflection  that  the  people  who  chose  beauty 
and  pleasure  before  absolute  truth  should  have 
made  Protagoras  their  spokesman  rather  than 
Socrates.  Certainly  it  is  a  prophecy  full  of  fore- 
boding for  the  fate  of  Greece  that  the  one  was 
loaded  with  riches  and  honour,  whereas  the  other 
died  a  felon's  death  in  the  gaol  of  Athens. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  the  Delphian  saluta- 
tion, when  so  used  by  Socrates  and  Plato,  would 
become  a  sort  of  catch-word  in  the  Academy. 
From  the  Academy  the  doctrine  of  self-know- 
ledge, together  with  other  Socratic  precepts, 
passed  readily  into  the  discipline  of  the  Stoics, 
With  them,  too,  happiness  is  the  summum  bomim, 
— happiness  which  is  the  natural  possession,  the 
flower,  so  to  speak,  of  a  virtuous  life,  and  which, 
indeed,  cannot  be  conceived  without  virtue.  If 
asked  wherein  consists  the  virtuous  life,  Zeno,  the 
founder  of  the  school,  would  reply,  "  In  living  in 
conformity  with  one's  self";    and  Cleanthes,  his 


206  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

pupil,  would  enlarge  this  to  "  living  in  conformity 
with  nature."  Nor  is  there  any  contradiction  in 
these  answers.  For  to  Zeno,  ' '  living  in  con- 
formity with  self ' '  meant  to  obey  the  dictates  of 
reason,  which  he  deemed  the  highest  part  of  man 
and  the  true  self.  Now  to  him,  as  to  all  the 
Stoics,  the  reason  was  not  an  isolated  power 
fashioned  in  the  breast  of  man,  but  rather  a  por- 
tion of  that  universal  subtile  element  which  they 
in  half- symbolical  manner  called  fire.  So  far  they 
were  pantheists.  This  subtile  element,  pervading 
the  world,  is  divine,  is  indeed  God;  and  to  the 
degree  that  a  man  recognises  this  force  within 
him  and  surrenders  to  its  guidance,  he  grows  like 
to  God,  and  at  death  passes  into  the  divine  nature. 
Self-knowledge  is  to  Zeno  and  Cleanthes  the  root 
of  virtue  and  happiness,  only  Cleanthes  emphasises 
more  strongly  the  kinship  of  this  self  to  universal 
reason. 

This  point  of  view,  however,  is  not  peculiar  to 
the  Stoics;  it  marks  all  the  philosophic  schools  of 
the  period.  The  old  simplicity  of  life  had  passed 
away,  and  with  it  the  spontaneous  joy  of  living 
and  that  unconscious  morality  whose  chief  re- 
striction could  be  summed  up  in  the  brief  com- 
mand, "  Nothing  too  much."  The  youth  has 
grown  to  man's  estate.  In  place  of  unconstrained 
harmony  with  nature  has  come  the  conscious  and 
painful  effort  to  conform  his  inner  being  to  the 
dictates  of  a  vague,  half-comprehended  idea  called 
still  by  the  old  name  Nature.      Patriotism  had 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK    LITERATURE       207 

been  the  bond  uniting  men  into  brotherhood,  and 
counterbalancing  what  might  otherwise  have  been 
a  narrow  selfishness.  With  Alexander  that  local 
attachment,  so  restricted  and  yet  so  efficient, 
gives  way  to  an  ideal  cosmopolitanism  whose 
shadowy  bounds  embrace  gradually  the  whole 
realm  of  existence.  In  this  vague  city  of  the 
world  the  homeless  spirit  of  man,  finding  that  re- 
lationship to  all  is  kinship  with  none,  is  thrown 
back  on  itself  in  brooding  revery.  The  primi- 
tive aim  of  self-knowledge,  which  would  temper 
action  to  sobriety,  becomes  less  important  than 
its  dormant  significance,  which  absorbs  action  in 
contemplation.  Plato  is  already  prophetic  of  the 
new  views;  Aristotle,  as  if  to  mark  off  forever  the 
completion  of  a  civilisation,  rejects  the  new  fer- 
ment and  sums  up  in  scholastic  terms  all  that  was 
truly  Hellenic  in  thought  and  knowledge.  Stoic 
and  Epicurean  alike  receive  the  tradition  of 
Greece,  but  add  a  spirit  utterly  foreign  in  char- 
acter. Stepping  beyond  the  limit  set  by  Aristotle 
and  Alexander,  we  should  be  swept  on  through 
the  mazes  of  many  philosophies  that  gradually 
assume  the  attitude  of  religions,  until  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  whirlpool  that  revolves  about 
Christianity.  Our  study  of  "Know  thyself" 
would  be  lost  in  the  abyss  of  Gnosticism,  for  the 
mystic  knowledge  of  Gnostic  and  Manichaean 
alike  is  but  a  late-born  child  of  Delphi.  Indeed, 
the  command  of  the  god  may  still  be  heard  above 
the  din  of  Saint  Augustine's  theology,  as,   for 


208  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

example,  in  that  passage  of  the  City  of  God  (xi.  26) 
where  it  is  expanded  into  a  curious  proof  or  simili- 
tude of  the  Trinity,  and  stands  a  true  prophet  of 
the  Cartesian  syllogism.  In  its  last  form,  cogito 
ergo  sum,  it  may  be  called  the  parent  of  modern 
philosophy.  The  sister  law,  which  gave  to  Greek 
life  its  inimitable  beauty,  is  lost  to  us  perhaps  for- 
ever; the  sadder  words  we  have  made  our  own. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  how  truly  the 
Delphian  god  voiced  the  moral  aspirations  of  his 
people.  It  would  be  instructive  here,  were  it  not 
out  of  proportion  to  our  design,  to  discover  how 
far  these  laws  are  recognised  by  other  lands,  and 
how  far  they  are  modified  or  supplanted.  I  can- 
not forbear  digressing  sufficiently  to  notice  the 
Hindus,  who  may  claim  after  the  Greeks  the 
honour  of  being  the  most  intellectual  people  of 
antiquity,  and  who  likewise  displayed  their  in- 
sight by  formulating  their  conception  of  life. 

Tracing  the  first  injunction  in  Greece,  we  find 
that  the  course  of  development  (which  does  not  al- . 
ways  mean  progress,  be  it  observed)  is  ' '  Nothing 
too  much,"  temperance,  self-restraint,  Epicurean 
tranquillity,  Stoic  apathy.  The  next  step  would 
have  carried  them  into  "  inattachment "  and  re- 
nunciation, and  this  is  the  form  it  assumes  in 
India;  so  that  the  Hindus  may  be  said  in  this 
respect  to  have  begun  where  the  Greeks  left  off. 
But  if  we  draw  the  line  of  genuine  Greek  thought 
at  Aristotle,  there  is  a  wider  gap  between  the 
two.     For  to  the  Stagirite  virtue  is  a  deliberate 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK   LITERATURE       209 

state  lying  in  the  mean  as  regards  ourselves,  de- 
fined by  reason  and  as  the  wise  man  would  define 
it.  The  wise  man  here  is  that  good  or  exemplary 
character  (o  GnovSaloi)  whom  Aristotle  con- 
stantly assumes  to  be  the  final  arbiter  of  right  and 
wrong.  It  is  he  who  most  adequately  exemplifies 
man  as  a  political  being,  adapted  to  his  surround- 
ings and  acting  with  approved  energy  among  his 
fellows;  so  that  in  the  end  the  theory  of  Aristotle 
rests  upon  a  common-sense  empirical  view.  In 
one  passage  (Nic.  Eth.,  ix.  4)  he  gives  a  picture 
of  this  exemplary  character,  symbolising  the  re- 
lation of  his  inner  faculties  by  the  attitude  of 
friends  to  one  another;  he  has  strong  desires,  but 
these  are  in  accord  with  reason ;  he  is  most  keenly 
attached  to  life,  and  contemplation  does  not  sup- 
plant but  rather  completes  the  general  activity  of 
his  nature. 

Compare  with  this  a  passage  of  the  Bhagavad- 
gitdy  the  divine  lay  of  India.  It  is  the  morning 
of  a  great  contest  and  the  prince,  seeing  his  own 
army  drawn  up  for  battle  and  the  host  of  the 
enemy  arrayed  in  opposition,  is  suddenly  seized 
with  contrition  for  the  many  warriors  who  must 
perish.  In  dejection  he  refuses  to  fight  until 
aroused  by  the  exhortations  of  his  charioteer,  who 
is,  in  reality,  the  incarnate  Vishnu.  The  admoni- 
tion of  the  god  is  drawn  out  into  a  remarkable 
religious  discourse: 

II.  11.  Thou  art  grieved  for  those  that  need  no  grief,  yet 
thy  words  are  words  of  wisdom  : 

VOL.  II. 14. 


2IO  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

They  that  have  knowledge  grieve  not  for  the  dead 
or  the  living. 

19.  He   who  reckoneth  It  the   slayer,  and  he  who 
deemeth  It  the  slain, 
They  both  distinguish  ill :  It  slayeth  not,  nor  is 
It  slain. 

22.  As  a  man  putteth  off  his  outworn  garments  and 
taketh  others  new ; 
So  the  Indweller  putteth  off  these  outworn  bodies, 
and  taketh  others  new. 

47.  Thy  service  is  in  the  work  only,  but  in  the  fruits 

thereof  never ; 
Be  not  impelled  by  the  result  of  works,  neither 
set  thy  heart  to  do  no  work. 

48.  Standing  firm  in  devotion,  and  putting  away  at- 

tachment, so  ever  work  on,  O  Prince  : 
Also  in  success  or  failure  be  thou  indifferent ;  in- 
difference, too,  is  called  devotion. 

III.  25.  As  the  ignorant  work  because  of  attachment  to 
works,  O  Prince, 
So  without  attachment  let  the  wise  work  for  the 
constraining  of  mankind. 

27.  For  all  works  in  all  places  are  of  a  truth  wrought 
by  the  blind  forces  of  Nature ; 
Only  he  that  is  deluded  by  egotism  thinketh  in 
himself,  "  I  am  the  doer !  " 

Here,  in  place  of  the  law  of  moderation  in  de- 
sire and  action,  is  a  new  command,  a  strange 
exhortation  to  work  without  desire,  without 
attachment,  without  interest  in  the  result.  The 
author  of  the   Gitd  sees  about  him  a  world  of 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK   LITERATURE       211 

action  which  bears  no  discoverable  relation  to  his 
inner  spiritual  needs,  yet  in  this  futile  turmoil  he 
is  called  by  the  exigencies  of  earthly  existence  to 
play  a  part.  He  would  perform  the  duties  of  his 
station,  but  with  complete  indifference  to  the  out- 
come, unmoved  by  success  or  failure,  incapable  of 
pleasure  or  pain.  The  strangeness  of  the  doctrine 
to  us  lies  in  this  utter  "  inattachment,"  which, 
be  it  said,  was  no  mere  scholastic  abstraction,  but 
the  genuine  aspiration  of  a  whole  people;  but  to 
the  Hindu  it  was  novel  rather  because  it  fell  short 
of  the  commoner  ideal.  Beyond  ' '  inattachment ' ' 
lay  the  utter  renunciation  of  works,  which  bade 
the  spirit  avoid  all  contact  with  the  world  and  in 
its  own  life  of  self-contemplation  seek  for  perfect 
peace : 

Like  an  uneasy  fool  thou  wanderest  far 
Into  the  nether  deeps, 
Or  upward  climbest  where  the  dim-lit  star 
Of  utmost  heaven  sleeps. 

Through  all  the  world  thou  rangest,  O  my  soul, 
Seeking  and  wilt  not  rest ; 
Behold,  the  peace  of  Brahma,  and  thy  goal, 
Hideth  in  thine  own  breast. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  such  a  contrast  in 
philosophic  principles  was  without  influence  on 
literature.  A  minute  comparison  of  the  epics  of 
Greece  and  India  would  show  as  its  effect  a 
radical  difference  of  language  and  form  and  senti- 
ment.    L/Ook   for  a  moment   at    the   concluding 


212  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

scenes  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Mahabharata.  To  the 
Greek  the  Iliad  presented  a  drama  of  the  pro- 
foundest  meaning  for  the  very  reason  that  the 
passions  and  actions,  the  tragedy  of  the  plot, 
sprung  from  transgression  of  the  highest  moral 
law  known  to  him,  the  law  of  moderation.  Aga- 
memnon errs  in  this  respect,  and  the  wrath  of 
Achilles  is  fatal  for  this  reason.  The  reconcilia- 
tion of  Achilles  is  brought  about  by  a  personal 
attachment  immoderate  in  its  strength,  and 
through  it  his  wrath  against  the  Achaians  is  con- 
verted to  rage  equally  excessive  against  Hector. 
Nothing  in  Greek  literature  is  more  perfect  in  its 
art  than  the  last  scene  of  the  poem,  where  anger 
is  subdued  to  pathos,  and  the  immoderate  passions 
subside  to  measure  and  temperance.  In  one 
sense  the  action  is  completed  at  the  death  of 
Hector,  but  the  underlying  moral  drama  is  form- 
less and  meaningless  without  the  last  interview 
between  Priam  and  Achilles. 

On  opening  the  Mahabharata  we  seem  to  have 
entered  into  a  different  world.  Monstrous  crea- 
tures and  actions  abound,  and  the  force  of  the 
poet's  imagination  is  shown,  not  by  the  creation 
of  harmonious  forms,  but  by  enlarging  everything 
to  fantastic  immensity.  There  is  no  tragedy  of 
human  passion,  but  rather  some  shadow)'  conflict 
of  impersonal  powers  in  which  the  character  of 
the  individual  man  has  little  part.  Briefly,  the 
poem  is  the  story  of  the  contest  of  two  sets  of 
brothers  for  the  throne.     At  last  the  rightful  heirs 


DELPHI    AND   GREEK    LITERATURE       213 

win  back  their  inheritance  and  the  usurpers  are 
crushed.  The  conclusion  is  as  significant  as  the 
final  scene  of  the  Iliad,  for  all  this  preliminary 
trial  is  only  preparatory  to  an  act  of  religious  re- 
nunciation. Now  the  restored  monarch,  followed 
by  his  four  brothers,  their  common  wife,  and  a 
faithful  dog,  abandons  the  capital  and  leads  them 
forth  as  pilgrims  to  seek  the  home  of  the  gods. 
Yet  one  after  another  they  fall  by  the  way  in  con- 
sequence of  some  former  sin,  till  only  the  eldest  is 
left,  whose  life  has  been  without  blemish.  Then 
a  very  touching  incident  occurs  when  Indra  ap- 
pears from  the  sky  and  bids  the  prince  mount  up 
with  him  in  his  chariot.  ' '  Nay, ' '  cries  the  prince, 
"but  I  must  take  this  faithful  hound  along." 
"  There  are  no  dogs  in  heaven;  it  cannot  be." 
"  Then  neither  go  I  thither  without  this  devoted 
follower."  Whereupon  the  dog  suddenly  disap- 
pears, and  in  his  place  stands  Dharmaraja,  a  god, 
the  Lord  of  Justice,  the  true  father  of  the  prince, 
who  has  taken  this  humble  form  to  prove  his  son. 
Together  they  ascend  to  heaven ;  but  not  even  yet 
is  the  trial  complete.  The  prince  is  dismayed  to 
see  his  wicked  cousins  sitting  with  the  gods, 
while  his  own  brothers,  he  is  told,  are  enduring 
torments  in  hell.  "  Then  I  too  will  go  thither  !  " 
he  exclaims,  "  for  it  is  better  to  suffer  with  them 
than  enjoy  bliss  with  the  unrighteous."  He  per- 
sists in  his  resolve  and  is  led  by  a  servant  of  the 
gods  to  the  infernal  regions,  where  he  beholds  his 
brothers  tortured  by  malignant  fiends.     Still  his 


214  SIIELBURNE   ESSAYS 

purpose  is  unshaken;  and  at  last  a  voice  cries  out, 
"  Lo,  it  is  all  maya,  it  is  illusion!  "  Whereupon 
the  evil  scenes  vanish  like  a  dream,  and  the  prince 
is  once  more  in  heaven  on  his  throne  amidst  the 
gods;  and  there  too  are  his  brothers  and  their 
wife,  who  welcome  him  to  the  reward  of  bliss. 
The  closing  scenes  of  the  Indian  epic  are  not 
without  impressiveness,  but  they  are  mystical 
rather  than  human;  they  teach  renunciation  and 
not  temperance. 

As  regards  knowledge,  we  are  perhaps  justly 
proud  in  this  passing  century  that  the  word  has 
acquired  almost  a  new  meaning:  the  past  and  the 
future  have  been  added  to  its  sphere.  History, 
as  an  attempt  to  re-create  foregone  times  and  by 
sympathy  to  throw  ourselves  backward  into  other 
surroundings,  is  essentially  a  modern  achieve- 
ment. By  its  side,  co-operating  with  it,  stands 
natural  science,  with  its  disregard  of  past  notions 
and  its  eye  fixed,  so  far  as  it  regards  human  con- 
duct at  all,  on  some  perfectibility  of  society  to  be 
brought  about  by  the  acquisition  of  mechanical 
skill.  Both  study  man  as  caught  in  a  huge 
movement  of  evolution.  The  ancient  conceptions 
of  knowledge,  whether  it  be  the  jnana  of  India,  or 
the  gn6sis  of  early  Christianity,  or  the  self-know- 
ledge of  Greece,  all  agreed  in  this,  that  they 
ignored  the  development  of  society,  and  recog- 
nised some  immutable  principle  upon  whose  com- 
prehension the  present  virtue  and  happiness  of 
the  individual  depended.     Concerning  Greek  self- 


DELPHI   AND   GREEK    LITERATURE       21 5 

knowledge,  enough  for  the  present.  As  the  in- 
ward-looking face  of  that  axiomatic  Janus  it  bears 
the  same  relation  to  the  Hindu  jnana  (literally 
and  etymologically,  gnosis)  as  was  seen  to  exist 
between  temperance  and  renunciation.  Self- 
knowledge  was  the  means  of  establishing  modera- 
tion. The  Hindu  deemed  the  phenomenal  world 
(and  no  Greek,  not  even  Plato,  could  quite  fol- 
low him  in  this)  totally  evil,  and  knowledge  was 
the  path  of  inner  renunciation  and  deliverance. 
From  the  beginning  of  eternity  the  spirit  is 
mewed  by  illusion  in  these  shifting  material 
forms.  The  whole  world  is  but  the  creation  of 
ignorance,  and  hence  with  knowledge  ceases  to 
exist,  as  a  stick  seen  in  the  road  and  mistaken  for 
a  snake  ceases  to  be  a  snake  when  rightly  re- 
garded. This  jiiana  is,  too,  a  kind  of  self-know- 
ledge. "  Know  thyself,"  the  Delphian  oracle 
proclaimed,  "learn  thy  individual  nature  and  so 
bring  it  into  harmony  with  life  about  thee." 
Tat  tvam  asz,  "  that  art  thou,"  is  the  watchword 
on  the  Ganges:  "thy  soul  is  itself  that  god;  know 
this  and  thy  illusive  individuality  comes  to  an 
end,  and  the  world  vanishes  from  about  thee." 
This  was  not  a  mere  difference  of  formulated 
words;  it  penetrated  the  very  life  of  the  people. 
With  such  views  of  man  and  nature  the  Greek 
became  the  master  of  artists  in  every  form  of 
beauty,  whereas  the  Hindu  sacrificed  all  to  attain 
a  state  of  spiritual  exaltation,  and  in  religion  won 
a  place  as  the  teacher  of  mankind. 


2l6  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

But  at  last  the  inevitable  question  remains: 
What  profit  in  it  all  ?  Why  isthe  fate  of  Greece 
only  one  of  the  many  tragedies  that  go  to  make 
up  human  history  ?  Temperance,  harmony,  the 
proper  balancing  of  faculties  and  dispositions, — 
we  might  safely  aver  that  these,  if  anything,  were 
calculated  to  preserve  a  person  or  a  race  against 
decay  and  ruin.  Other  nations  perished  mainly 
because  they  ignored  this  vital  law;  and  this  curi- 
ous dilemma  confronts  us,  that  the  degeneracy  of  a 
people  is  accelerated  by  the  very  excellence  which 
wrought  its  earlier  greatness.  The  strength  of 
Israel  lay  in  its  uncompromising  worship  of  Je- 
hovah and  its  intensely  narrow  national  life;  yet 
in  the  end  this  same  religious  bigotry  cut  them 
off  from  the  new  faith  that  sprung  from  their 
midst  and  was  to  regenerate  society,  while  their 
racial  prejudices  caused  them  to  be  utterly  crushed 
as  a  nation  by  the  Roman  Empire.  Again,  the 
greatness  of  Rome  was  her  power  of  conquest  and 
government,  and  Rome  at  last,  absorbed  in  her 
dependencies,  fell  by  her  own  weight.  The  Mo- 
hammedans were*  rendered  doubly  invincible  by 
their  peculiar  fatalism.  If  death  came,  it  was  by 
the  will  of  Allah,  whether  they  courted  or  shunned 
danger;  in  the  days  of  their  vigour,  accordingly, 
they  fought  with  intrepid  valour;  in  their  decline 
they  lay  idle,  for  God  would  accomplish  all  things 
whether  they  acted  or  not.  More  tragic  yet  is 
the  fate  of  India.  With  undaunted  courage  the 
Hindus  sacrificed  everything,  —  power,   beauty,, 


DELPHI   AND    GREEK    LITERATURE        2\J 

personal  aggrandisement, —  to  lay  violent  hands 
on  the  kingdom  of  heaven;  and  for  a  time  they 
rose  to  a  height  of  religious  grandeur  which  must 
now  and  always  be  regarded  with  wonder.  But 
life  is  not  of  the  spirit  alone.  The  body  which 
they  so  insolently  neglected  had  its  revenge. 
Spiritual  pride  degenerated  into  moral  indiffer- 
ence; quietism  begot  effeminacy;  and  the  proud 
Hindu  fell  a  prey  to  all  the  lusts  of  his  own  flesh 
and  to  the  cupidity  of  any  adventurous  conqueror. 
But  in  Greece,  where  moderation  was  followed 
as  a  kind  of  religion,  what  was  it  that  caused  the 
same  expansion  and  decay  ?  Paradoxical  as  it  may 
sound,  may  not  their  error  have  lain  in  the  very 
appropriation  of  such  a  standard?  They,  too, 
made  their  renunciation,  deliberately  refusing  to 
accept  any  absolute  idea  which  might  destroy  the 
desired  balance.  Nothing  is  absolutely  right  or 
wrong;  nothing  is  absolutely  true  or  false;  seek 
only  the  proper  medium  in  all  things.  Is  not  this 
in  itself  a  kind  of  excess  in  raising  the  expedient 
and  beautiful  above  that  eternal  truth  which  in 
its  nakedness  consumed  the  Hindu  as  in  a  de- 
vouring fire  ?  If  any  one  thing  hastened  the  fall 
of  Greece,  it  was  her  disregard  of  that  stern  law 
of  righteousness  which  overawed  the  Jew,  and 
that  mystic  voice  within  which  allured  the  Hindu 
to  the  abysm.  Plato  somewhere  observes:  ' '  When 
any  one  prefers  beauty  to  virtue,  what  is  this  but 
the  real  and  utter  dishonour  of  the  soul  ?  For 
such  a  preference  implies  that  the  body  is  more 


218  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

honourable  than  the  soul;  and  this  is  false,  for  there 
is  nothing  of  earthly  birth  more  honourable  than 
the  heavenly."  Yet  let  us  read  a  little  in  the  all- 
wise  Plato  even,  and  turn  then  to  the  denuncia- 
tions of  Isaiah  or  the  sermons  of  Buddha.  We 
are  in  doubt,  when  hearing  the  beautiful  words 
of  the  Greek,  whether  to  admire  the  unruffled 
serenity  of  his  contemplation  of  life,  or  to  anathe- 
matise his  lofty  tolerance  before  evils  that  were 
eating  out  the  heart  of  his  nation.  By  the  side 
of  Plato  grew  up  another  pupil  of  Socrates,  like- 
wise a  moralist  in  his  own  way,  who  illustrated 
perfectly  in  his  doctrine  and  life  the  real  tendency 
of  Greece, —  Aristippus  of  Cyrene,  who  made 
pleasure  and  beauty  the  chief  good,  recognising 
no  evil  action  so  long  as  a  man  remained  master 
of  himself.  To  one  who  rebuked  his  intimacy 
with  L,ais  the  courtesan,  he  replied,  ffabeo,  non 
habeor  ab  ilia  ;  and  it  is  he  who  said,  when  cen- 
sured for  falling  at  the  feet  of  the  tyrant  Dionysius, 
"  I  am  not  to  blame,  but  Dionysius  who  has  his 
ears  in  his  feet."  In  all  his  words  there  is  the 
same  wisdom  of  experience  that  gives  so  piquant 
an  interest  to  the  comic  fragments  of  the  age. 
There  is  grace  and  charm  yet  in  Greece,  but  the 
GrcBculus  esuriens  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  philo- 
sophy of  the  Cyrenaic  is  only  a  new  adaptation 
of  the  salutation  of  the  Delphian  oracle.  We 
hardly  know  in  the  end  whether  these  worshippers 
of  Apollo  followed  his  command  too  well,  or  only 
half  understood  its  import. 


NEMESIS,   OR  THE  DIVINE  ENVY 

From  experience  and  reflection  the  Greeks  for- 
mulated a  law  of  conduct,  simple  in  expression, 
but  far-reaching  in  application.  The  Delphian 
aphorisms,  ' '  Nothing  too  much  ' '  and  ' '  Know 
thyself,"  are  the  refined  quintessence  of  their 
practical  wisdom  and  moral  philosophy,  summing 
up  briefly  man's  duty  to  himself  and  society  with- 
out reference  for  the  most  part  to  any  supramun- 
dane  legislative  power.  Yet  the  Greeks  were 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  immanence  of  the  divine 
in  human  affairs,  so  that  a  complete  understand- 
ing of  their  moral  views  and  their  literature  is 
hardly  possible  without  examining  this  law  of 
moderation  and  self-knowledge  in  another  form, 
as  adapted  to  man's  relations  to  the  gods. 

Here  at  once  occur  to  the  mind  those  words  of 
the  sage  Periander,  Think  as  a  mortal,  and  the 
innumerable  passages  in  poets  and  philosophers 
that  convey  the  same  lesson  in  dramatic  or  dia- 
lectic form.  So  in  the  mouth  of  Calchas  they 
become  for  Sophocles  the  sum  of  tragic  warning: 
"  Misfortune  from  the  gods  overtakes  men  who 
forget  to  think  as  mortals  ";  and  the  same  words 
are  still  heard  in  the  last  great  prose  of  Athens. 
Demosthenes,  in  one  of  his  eloquent  perorations, 
219 


220  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

recalling  the  unforeseen  revolutions  in  Grecian 
affairs, — Sparta  humiliated  by  Thebes,  the  Syra- 
cusans  fallen  a  prey  to  tyrants,  and  Dionysius  in 
turn  degraded  from  his  proud  eminence, —  ex- 
claims that  the  whole  world  is  full  of  uncertainty 
and  that  trivial  causes  often  effect  the  greatest 
changes.  "  Wherefore,"  he  avers,  "  being  men 
we  ought  to  speak  with  caution,  hoping  and 
praying  the  gods  for  prosperity,  yet  esteeming  all 
things  human." 

Greece  was  a  land  of  revolutions  so  startling 
that  the  plea  of  the  orator  is  more  than  justified. 
When  the  capture  of  Miletus  was  represented  on 
the  Athenian  stage  the  whole  audience,  we  are 
told,  burst  into  tears,  and  the  poet  was  fined  a 
thousand  drachmae  for  reminding  them  of  the 
calamity.  Yet  the  fall  of  the  proud  Ionian  city, 
ruthlessly  sacked  and  depopulated  by  the  Persians, 
by  no  means  stands  alone  in  the  atrocities  of 
Grecian  war.  Nor  is  it  a  singular  story  in  Greek 
annals  to  read  of  the  dethroned  Dionysius  sailing 
as  a  private  man  to  Corinth  and  consorting  in  the 
market-place  of  that  city  with  shopkeepers  and 
outcasts.  And  there  was  no  one  of  the  Greeks, 
the  biographer  adds,  but  was  eager  to  see  and 
accost  him,  some  through  hatred  rejoicing  in  his 
overthrow  and  wishing  to  trample  on  one  cast 
down  by  fortune,  others  filled  with  compassion 
and  convinced  by  the  manifest  futility  and  change 
in  mortal  things  of  the  power  of  secret  and  divine 
causes. 


NEMESIS  221 

This  actual  uncertainty  of  fortune  in  Greece 
lends  a  tone  of  realism  to  the  constant  outcry 
of  poet  and  moralist.  But  even  apart  from  his- 
torical causes  the  Hellenic  mind  seems  to  have 
been  peculiarly  affected  by  the  precariousness  of 
human  state.  Life,  it  appeared  to  them,  was  be- 
sieged by  infinite  enemies  and  held  its  citadel  only 
by  unceasing  watchfulness, — as  it  were  the  little 
flame  of  a  lamp  cherished  in  the  hand  against  the 
buffeting  flaws  of  the  night-wind.  They  might 
well  carve  as  a  symbol  of  death  the  inverted  and 
extinguished  torch.  Such  a  feeling  is,  to  be  sure, 
a  commonplace  of  poetry,  and  the  Hindu  epigrams 
for  example  are  full  of  similar  metaphors: 

Old  age  like  as  a  tiger  held  at  bay 
Still  crouches  ;  sly  diseases  day  by  day 

Our  leaguered  body  sap  ; 
As  water  from  a  broken  urn,  so  leak 
The  wasting  moments  ; — lo,  this  people  seek 

Oblivion  in  love's  lap. 

But  for  the  Greek,  with  his  eager  zest  of  living 
and  his  brave  doubt  of  the  future,  the  thought 
assumes  a  poignancy  and  persistence  that  render 
it  distinctively  characteristic  of  the  race.  ' '  Crea- 
tures of  a  day — what  are  we  ?  what  are  we  not  ? ' ' 
cries  Pindar;  "  man  is  the  dream  of  a  shadow!  " 
The  bewildered  prophetess  in  the  Agamemnon, 
urged  by  the  vision  of  ruin  impending  over  her- 
self and  the  house  of  Atreus,  exclaims:  "  Alas  for 
human  things!      A  prosperous  man  one  might 


222  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

liken  to  a  sketch;  and  if  be  fail — whj',  then  't  is 
but  the  brushing  of  a  wet  sponge  obliterates  the 
picture."  And  in  Sophocles  there  is  this  noble 
image  of  changing  fortune:  "Sorrow  and  joy 
circle  about  to  each  like  the  revolving  ways  of  the 
starry  Bear.  Nor  doth  the  palpitating  night  re- 
main, nor  evil,  nor  riches — but  suddenly  they  are 
gone." 

Still,  however  persistently  the  Greeks  may  have 
dwelt  on  this  thought,  it  is  nevertheless  one  com- 
mon to  the  human  race,  a  natural  cry  of  universal 
experience.  Its  notable  feature  here  is  its  con- 
nection with  the  oft-repeated  command  to  think 
as  a  mortal,  in  other  words  its  frank  assumption 
into  the  religious  sphere.  Know  thyself,  and 
learn  moderation  in  thy  dealings  with  men;  know 
thyself,  and  learn  humility  under  the  jealousy  of 
the  divine  powers.  The  mythology  of  the  Greeks, 
more  than  that  of  any  other  people,  is  a  poetical 
prosopopoeia  on  an  extended  scale,  and  their  gods 
still  have  meaning  for  us  because  they  are  the 
most  transparent  personification  of  man's  emo- 
tions and  ideals.  It  was  inevitable  therefore  that 
this  brooding  conception  of  our  own  littleness  in 
the  midst  of  the  threatening  forces  of  nature 
should  be  referred  to  the  envy  of  the  gods,  and 
should  even  assume  individual  attributes  in  the 
Olympian  hierarchy  as  Nemesis  and  the  Erinyes. 
To  us  who  have  been  trained  up  in  a  religion 
which  emphasises  so  strongly  (in  theory  at  least) 
the  fatherhood  and  love  of  God,  this  ackiiowledg- 


NEMESIS  223 

raent  of  the  divine  envy  may  at  first  appear  in- 
comprehensible and  even  repulsive.  An  effort  of 
the  understanding  is  required  to  appreciate  this 
phase  of  Greek  religion,  which  has  permeated 
and  coloured  the  whole  of  their  literature;  so  that 
it  becomes  imperative,  before  entering  upon  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject  as  treated  by  Greek  authors, 
to  examine  the  same  idea  elsewhere  and  observe 
how  universal  it  is,  although  everywhere  differ- 
ently expressed. 

What  else  but  this  haunting,  vaguely  conceived 
dread  of  a  daemonic  jealousy  compels  the  savage  to 
bloody  sacrifice  and  hideous  rites,  to  incantations 
for  exorcising  evil  spirits  —  spirits  not  distin- 
guished from  his  gods  —  and  for  driving  away 
terror  from  the  darkness  ?  What  else  but  a  feel- 
ing that  heaven  begrudges  man  every  good  thing 
leads  him  to  utter  prayers  of  supplication  ? 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  Hebrew  religion 
we  are  met  by  one  of  the  most  impressive  denun- 
ciations of  the  divine  jealousy.  Though  the 
words  are  placed  in  the  mouth  of  the  Serpent, 
they  none  the  less  proclaim  a  feeling  deep-seated 
in  the  human  heart:  "  For  God  doth  know  that 
in  the  day  ye  eat  thereof,  then  your  eyes  shall  be 
opened;  and  ye  shall  be  as  gods."  Nor  were  the 
words  of  the  tempter  entirely  false;  for  the  know- 
ledge of  good  and  evil  brings  a  godlike  element 
into  the  actions  of  man  that  were  otherwise  hardly 
distinguishable  from  the  workings  of  mechanical 
force  or  bestial  instinct.     The  penalty  of  death, 


224  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

too,  has  its  celestial  ministry  in  wrapping  trivial 
earthly  things  in  the  mystery  of  the  outer  silent 
world;  and  labour  and  sorrow  may  be,  after  all, 
the  only  masters  of  the  higher  wisdom.  Such  an 
interpretation  of  the  passage  in  Genesis  is  by  no 
means  a  new  one.  Certain  sects  of  the  Gnostics, 
mingling  Oriental  and  Hellenic  ideas  with  Christ- 
ian dogma,  made  this  a  cardinal  point  in  their 
faith,  boldly  denouncing  the  Jewish  God  as  a 
malicious  power  who  endeavoured  to  cheat  man 
of  his  heritage,  and  deeming  the  Serpent  a  mes- 
senger of  the  truth,  a  forerunner  and  type  of  the 
Messiah.  Again,  in  the  second  commandment  it 
is  written :  ' '  For  I  the  Lord  thy  God  am  a  jealous 
God."  Now  jealousy  is  near  akin  to  envy,  and 
in  fact  the  same  word  is  elsewhere  (Job  v.,  2) 
translated  envy;  yet  the  slight  difference  in  mean- 
ing marks  a  distinction  between  Jewish  and  Greek 
ideas.  According  to  the  latter,  the  envy  of  the 
gods  followed  any  departure  from  the  just  limits 
of  man's  sphere  and  any  intrusion  into  the  field 
of  celestial  action;  whereas  the  Hebrews  in  their 
intense  monotheistic  creed  feared  the  jealousy  of 
Jehovah  if  in  place  of  blind  obedience  they  strove 
for  knowledge,  or  if  they  failed  in  perfect  and  ex- 
clusive devotion. 

Quainter  in  form  is  the  picture  of  divine  envy 
in  the  Indian  religion.  We  are  left  to  wonder  a 
little  why  the  gods  of  the  Greek  should  suffer  this 
passion.  Hardly  can  they  fear  the  rivalry  of  man, 
nor  is  any  such  exclusiveness  found  in  their  cult 


NEMESIS  225 

as  should  arouse  jealousy.  Here,  as  in  so  many 
other  respects,  we  find  the  Greek  conception  pre- 
sented by  the  Hindus  more  logically,  so  as  to 
satisfy  better  the  speculative  reason,  but  at  the 
same  time  divested  of  that  moderation  and  nat- 
uralness which  lend  beauty  of  form  in  art  and 
value  of  example  in  conduct.  It  was  the  ambi- 
tion of  the  Hindu  sage,  by  means  of  penance 
which  should  strip  the  will  bare  of  clogs  and 
magnify  its  scope  indefinitely,  to  endow  himself 
with  supernatural  powers,  equalling  or  even  sur- 
passing those  of  the  gods.  Hence  the  divine 
envy;  and  Indra,  the  ruler  in  the  sky,  receives 
warning  in  the  drollest  manner  when  any  saint 
begins  to  grow  too  mighty  for  his  Olympian 
security.  Immediately  the  god's  throne  waxes 
hot  under  him,  and,  thus  advised  in  time,  he  dis- 
patches a  fair  nymph  or  other  sweet  illusion  to 
seduce  the  sage  from  his  abnegation,  and  to  en- 
feeble his  will  by  rendering  him  once  more  subject 
to  the  flesh.  The  fable  is  retained  also  by  the  Bud- 
dhists, who,  however,  modify  its  spirit  somewhat. 
Sakka  (the  Buddhist  Indra,  lord  of  one  of  the 
sensuous  heavens)  must  benignantly  assist  the 
Buddha,  although  his  own  kingdom  is  to  be  over- 
thrown by  the  new  teacher.  Accordingly,  after 
the  four  admonitions,  when  the  future  Buddha  is 
about  to  retire  from  the  world  and  obtain  enlight- 
enment, Sakka  is  made  aware  of  his  peril  by  the 
customary  sign:  "At  that  moment  the  throne  on 
which  Sakka  was  sitting  grew  hot.     And  Sakka, 


226  SIIELBURNE    ESSAYS 

reflecting  who  it  might  be  that  wished  to  dislodge 
him,  perceived  that  the  time  had  come  for  the 
adorning  of  a  Future  Buddha." 

Even  the  Christian  faith,  based  as  it  is  on  the 
law  of  mercy,  is  permeated  by  the  same  natural 
dread.  Indeed,  one  might  say  that  nowhere  else 
does  it  show  itself  in  such  naked  austerity  as  in 
the  rigid  logic  of  Calvin,  or  in  the  tremendous 
denunciations  of  Jonathan  Edwards.  God  is 
love;  yet,  in  his  omnipotent  righteousness,  he  has 
created  millions  of  beings  who  are  predestined 
to  everlasting  torture.  Born  into  sin,  we  should 
seem  to  behold  the  heavens  blazing  above  us  with 
wrath  and  hatred,  like  those  flaming  ramparts  of 
the  sky  which  smote  Lucretius  with  a  frenzy  of 
horror.  The  very  fundamental  idea  of  an  angry 
deity,  whose  justice  is  appeased  only  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  his  own  son,  raises  this  envy  into  such  a 
region  of  awful  austerity  as  might  fill  the  world 
with  shuddering.  As  if  in  mockery,  Dante  read 
over  the  portal  of  hell: 

Created  me  divine  Omnipotence, 

The  highest  Wisdom  and  the  primal  Love. 

This,  it  may  be,  is  the  sterner  face  of  Christianity, 
yet  in  the  courtly  orations  of  Bossuet  we  may  read 
here  and  there  sentences  that  present  the  old 
Greek  notion  of  Nemesis  in  the  disguise  of  Christ- 
ian garb.  "  I  must  raise  myself,"  he  says, 
"  above  man  that  I  may  make  every  creature 
tremble  beneath  the  judgments  of  God.     I  will 


NEMESIS  227 

enter,  with  David,  into  the  might  of  the  L,ord." 
And  elsewhere:  "  Then  might  she  well  say  with 
the  prophet  Isaiah:  'The  Lord  of  hosts  hath 
purposed  it,  to  stain  the  pride  of  all  glory,  and  to 
bring  into  contempt  all  the  honourable  of  the 
earth.'  '  Again,  he  quotes  from  the  Gospel:  Vcz 
qui  ridetis,  vce  qui  saturati  estis — words  of  more 
terrible  import  than  any  echoing  cry  of  ancient 
heathen  tragedy. 

Apart  from  religion,  a  slight  examination  of 
literature  would  show  that  the  master  minds, 
those  who  have  looked  directly  into  the  wide  in- 
terplay of  circumstance  and  searched  the  human 
heart  without  paying  allegiance  to  any  dogmatic 
creed,  have  bowed  to  the  same  belief  in  the  divine 
envy.  It  is  needless  to  accumulate  illustrations, 
but  one  relevant  passage  may  be  quoted  from 
Goethe's  Conversations.  "You  know,"  said  he, 
"that  Napoleon  wore  habitually  a  uniform  of 
dark  green.  From  long  use  and  exposure  to  the 
sun  this  uniform  had  faded  badly,  so  that  it  be- 
came necessary  to  replace  it.  Napoleon  wished 
the  same  colour,  but  in  the  island  no  piece  of 
cloth  of  the  kind  could  be  found.  .  .  .  The 
master  of  the  world  could  not  obtain  the  colour 
he  desired,  and  nothing  was  left  for  him  but  to 
have  the  old  uniform  turned  and  to  wear  it  so. — 
What  say  you  to  that  ?  Is  it  not  a  bit  of  genuine 
tragedy  ?  Is  there  not  something  pathetic  in  the 
sight  of  the  master  of  kings  reduced  to  wearing  a 
turned  uniform  ?    '  And  yet  when  you  think  that 


228  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

such  an  end  befell  a  man  who  had  trampled  under 
foot  the  life  and  happiness  of  millions  of  men, 
destiny,  even  while  turning  against  him,  seems 
still  to  have  been  very  indulgent.  Here  is  a 
Nemesis,  who,  on  considering  the  greatness  of 
the  hero,  could  not  refrain  from  employing  still  a 
touch  of  gallantry.  Napoleon  gives  us  an  ex- 
ample of  the  dangers  inherent  in  raising  one's 
self  to  the  absolute  and  in  sacrificing  all  to  an 
idea." 

We  have  then  in  this  feeling  of  man's  frailty,  in 
this  shrinking  before  an  unsympathetic  destiny, 
one  of  the  universal  instincts  of  mankind;  and 
here  as  elsewhere  the  Greek  people  showed  their 
soundness  of  moral  sense  in  raising  to  a  general 
law  of  conduct  the  maxim  Think  as  a  mortal,  and 
their  sincerity  of  religious  conviction  in  elevating 
the  cause  of  their  fear  to  personality  among  the 
gods.  The  Greeks,  voicing  in  this,  too,  the  com- 
mon feeling  of  mankind,  waver  in  their  attitude 
towards  this  personified  fear.  At  one  time  it  is 
Erinys  who  upholds  the  divine  justice,  punishing 
the  trespasser  only;  at  another  time  it  is  Nemesis, 
taking  pleasure  in  the  downfall  of  human  great- 
ness and  sporting  wantonly  with  human  pride. 

Erinys,  if  we  accept  a  thoroughly  doubtful 
etymology,  was  originally  a  nature  myth,  corre- 
sponding to  the  Vedic  Saranyu.  But  whether 
Saranyu  be  the  dawn  that  discovers  the  crimes  of 
the  night,  or  a  storm  goddess  who  purifies  the  air 
and  at  the  same  time  kindles  house  and  home, — 


NEMESIS  229 

whether,  iu  short,  we  are  justified  at  all  iu  seek- 
ing the  origin  of  these  ethical  divinities  in  old 
nature  myths  is  entirely  problematical.  Cer- 
tainly in  Homer's  time  Erinys,  or  the  Erinyes, 
had  become  altogether  severed  from  any  such 
phenomena.  There,  as  in  later  literature,  they 
are  the  demons  whose  charge  it  is  to  maintain  the 
existing  order  of  things  and  especially  to  exact 
punishment  for  crimes  that  relax  the  bonds  of  so- 
ciety. So  in  Homer  the  horse  of  Achilles  is  for  the 
moment  given  human  speech  to  warn  his  master 
of  coming  fate,  and  then,  "  when  he  had  spoken 
thus,  the  Erinyes  stayed  his  voice."  The  con- 
stellations of  heaven  tremble  before  the  same 
power,  and  from  them  Plutarch  has  drawn  this 
admirable  lesson:  "And  he  who  sees  happiness 
in  those  who  are  ever  running  about  and  wasting 
the  best  part  of  life  in  wayside  houses  and  inns, 
is  like  to  one  who  should  think  the  wandering 
planets  fare  better  than  the  fixed  stars.  And 
still  each  of  the  planets  preserves  his  appointed 
order,  going  about  in  one  orbit  as  in  an  island: 
for  neither  will  the  sun,  saith  Heracleitus,  trans- 
gress his  bounds,  else  will  the  Erinj-es,  the  minis- 
trants  of  justice,  overtake  him."  The  beasts 
are  held  in  silence  by  these  watchful  deities,  and 
the  inanimate  bodies  of  nature  obey  their  will. 
Among  men  they  are  the  guardians  of  social  ties; 
they  have  in  charge  the  rights  of  suppliants,  the 
claims  of  family,  the  maintenance  of  oaths;  and 
theirs,  above  all,  is  vengeance  for  the  slaying  of 


230  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

kin.  "  For  this  duty,"  they  chant  in  the  play 
named  from  them,  "this  duty  remorseless  Destiny 
hath  woven  for  us  to  hold  without  swerving,  that 
when  a  man  recklessly  slayeth  his  kin,  we  should 
follow  after  him  till  he  come  beneath  the  earth— 
yet  neither  in  death  is  he  altogether  free."  As 
avengers  of  perjury,  also,  their  office  is  to  guard 
the  existing  order  of  things;  for  in  Greek  the 
word  for  oath  signifies  literally  a  restraint  or 
boundary,  and  any  infraction  of  a  solemn  vow 
would  seem  to  bring  fatal  confusion  into  social 
life.  The  gods  themselves  have  their  own  oath 
by  the  imperishable  water  of  the  Styx,  and  the 
immortal  who  swears  falsely  by  this  daughter  of 
Ocean  is  for  nine  years  degraded  from  Olympus 
and  subjected  to  torment. 

With  implacable  zeal  the  Erinyes  hunt  down 
earthly  glory  that  vaunts  itself  unduly.  So  in  the 
play  of  iEschylus  they  exclaim:  "  The  vanity  of 
men  and  their  pride  that  toucheth  the  sky, — all 
this  melteth  at  our  dark-stoled  approach,  it 
wasteth  away  unhonoured  under  earth."  In 
these  fearful  daughters  of  Night  the  Greek  beheld 
the  penalty  that  overtakes  those  who  forget  in 
pride  or  madness  to  think  as  mortals:  and  woe  to 
the  man  whom  some  higher  law  impels  to  disdain 
these  avenging  deities,  whether  it  be  a  Hamlet 
of  the  modern  world  driven  on  by  conscience  and 
ghostly  apparitions,  or  an  Orestes  summoned  by 
oracular  voices  to  confront  their  wrath  in  pur- 
suance of  a  sterner  duty.     And  woe  to  the  man 


NEMESTS  231 

whom  the  gods  have  endowed  with  gifts  of  super- 
human wisdom,  for  to  him  also  the  grace  of  heaven 
is  not  without  peril.  This  inexorable  law  of  the 
Erinyes  would  seem  to  throw  light  on  the  strange 
attitude  of  Greek  literature  toward  those  who 
have  received  any  form  of  inspiration  or  super- 
natural favour. 

For  this  reason  the  love  of  the  gods  for  mortals 
is  represented  as  full  of  danger  to  the  recipients 
and  to  their  offspring.  The  lament  of  sad  Ca- 
lypso, when  summoned  to  part  with  Odysseus, 
echoes  through  all  the  later  poets: 

Ungracious  gods !  with  spite  and  envy  cursed ! 

Still  to  your  own  ethereal  race  the  worst ! 

Ye  envy  mortal  and  immortal  joy, 

And  love,  the  only  sweet  of  life,  destroy. 

Did  ever  goddess  by  her  charms  engage 

A  favour'd  mortal,  and  not  feel  your  rage? 

So  when  Aurora  sought  Orion's  love, 

Her  joys  disturb'd  your  blissful  hours  above, 

Till,  in  Ortygia,  Dian's  winged  dart 

Had  pierced  the  hapless  hunter  to  the  heart. 

So  when  the  covert  of  the  thrice-ear'd  field 

Saw  stately  Ceres  to  her  passion  yield, 

Scarce  could  Iasion  taste  her  heavenly  charms, 

But  Jove's  swift  lightning  scorch'd  him  in  her  arms. 

The  story  of  Ion,  the  child  of  that  Creusa  who 
was  wooed  and  abandoned  by  Apollo,  gave 
Euripides  material  for  one  of  his  most  exquisite 
tragedies.  But  of  all  idyls  of  immortal  love  the 
tale  of  Io  and  Zeus  is  the  saddest  and  the  rich- 
est in  meaning.      What  reader  of  Greek  has  not 


232  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

lingered  over  her  confession  in  the  Prometheus 
Bound, —  the  maiden  visited  by  visions  of  the 
night  in  her  virgin  chambers,  the  tender  princess 
wooed  by  the  sweet  voice  of  dreams,  and  at  last 
driven  forth  from  her  home  to  be  the  prey  of  her 
divine  suitor  and  to  wander  helpless  over  the 
wide  earth.  Even  between  man  and  woman  the 
power  of  Eros  was  fraught  with- terror,  just  as  his 
ecstasy  of  joy  seemed  to  transcend  the  bounds  of 
safety. 

The  gift  of  song  came  with  like  peril  to  the  reci- 
pient. Demodocus,  the  rhapsodist  of  the  Odyssey, 
to  whom  the  Muses  gave  skill  in  singing  but 
added  darkness  of  sight,  and  ' '  the  blind  old  bard  of 
Chio's  rocky  isle,"  from  whom  sprang  the  legend 
of  Homer's  blindness,  are  types  of  the  poetic  art 
bestowed  grudgingly  by  the  gods,  as  if  the  power 
of  portraying  to  the  inner  vision  could  only  be 
won  by  closing  the  eyes  on  the  winsome  outer 
world.  In  later  times  the  poet  was  even  regarded 
as  subject  to  a  kind  of  daemonic  possession  which 
deprived  him  of  all  worldly  intelligence. 

Something  of  the  same  sort  was  the  madness 
which  overpowered  the  Bacchic  revellers  and  those 
who  were  initiated  into  other  orgiastic  rites.  The 
poets  are  replete  with  pictures  of  the  Msenads 
dancing  wildly  on  the  mountain  ridges,  uprending 
trees  in  their  fury,  slaying  savage  beasts,  and  de- 
vouring the  raw  flesh.  And  we  know  with  what 
horrible  awakening  one  of  them,  the  mother  of 
Pentheus,  recognises  in  her  hand  the  bleeding 


NEMESIS  233 

head  of  her  son  whom,  with  the  other  frantic 
Bacchanals,  she  has  torn  limb  from  limb.  Such 
was  the  penalty  which  fell  alike  upon  him  who, 
in  his  Greek  love  of  moderation,  denied  the  god, 
and  upon  her  who  surrendered  herself  to  his  re- 
ligious enthusiasm. 

But  still  more  striking  is  the  fate  of  the  inspired 
prophets  who  incurred  the  jealousy  of  Olympus 
for  penetrating  or  divulging  its  secrets.  They 
are  smitten  with  blindness,  or  withered  by  age,  or 
must  wander  among  men  as  babblers  speaking  an 
incomprehensible  tongue.  Teiresias,  with  his 
inner  vision  and  darkened  eyes,  revolving  through 
seven  ages  the  doom  of  Thebes,  or  endeavouring 
in  vain  to  arouse  the  guilty  CEdipus;  Cassandra, 
tormented  by  her  knowledge  of  Troy's  fate  and 
condemned  to  inarticulate  raving;  Helenus,  like- 
wise unable  to  utter  words  of  intelligence  to  his 
countrymen, — are  witnesses  to  the  danger  of  wis- 
dom that  transcends  human  bounds.  The  most 
graphic  scene  in  the  Argonautica  is  the  picture  of 
Phineus,  blind,  shriveled  with  age,  haunted  by 
the  Harpies,  for  his  oracular  utterance  to  men  of 
the  mind  of  Zeus.  When  at  last  the  Argonauts 
arrive,  "  he  goes  forth  from  his  couch  like  a  life- 
less dream,  leaning  on  a  staff,  tottering  on  his 
stiffened  feet,  groping  along  the  wall."  There  he 
sits  on  the  threshold  before  the  house  and  fore- 
tells to  the  sailors  the  adventures  that  await  them. 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  peril  attendant  on 
superhuman  gifts  which  led  Plato  to  speak  of  the 


234  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

four  kinds  of  divine  madness, — the  prophetic,  the 
initiatory,  the  poetic,  and  the  erotic.  These  are 
all  akin,  being  essentially  a  high-wrought  sym- 
bolism concerned  with  different  elements.  One 
foretells  the  purpose  of  the  gods  by  sacrificial  and 
other  signs;  another  displays  the  indwelling  of 
spiritual  faith  by  the  surrender  of  the  reason  to  a 
delirious  enthusiasm,  or  presents  the  mysteries 
of  religion  in  a  symbolic  drama;  another  restores 
the  world  of  phenomena  to  the  idealising  mind 
by  means  of  rhythmic  imitation;  and  the  erotic 
madness,  in  its  wider  sense,  awakens  the  desire 
of  heavenly  perfection  by  the  vision  of  earthly 
grace.  They  are  all  divine  because  they  build  a 
ladder  by  which  the  soul  may  ascend  to  com- 
munion with  celestial  things;  they  are  a  madness 
because  by  the  influx  of  these  general  ideas  the 
relation  of  the  personality  to  specific  things  is 
perturbed, — just  as  gazing  at  the  stars  one  might 
stumble  into  a  well  at  his  feet. 

This  divine  madness  illustrates  once  more  the 
reiterated  command  to  think  as  a  mortal;  for  the 
Greek  in  general  deliberately  chose  sanity  within 
set  bounds,  in  preference  to  the  hazardous  har- 
bouring of  the  unlimited.  And  as  he  found 
beauty  and  health  and  reason  in  such  limitations 
he  was  content  to  worship  the  avengers  of  such 
transgression  as  the  peculiar  champions  of  justice. 
The  perception  of  right  order  in  the  world  was 
the  source  of  his  moral  feeling;  and  this  right 
order  he  personified,  calling  it  Themis,  the  wife 


NEMESIS  235 

of  Zeus  and  mother  of  the  Hours.  Themis,  more- 
over, as  knowing  the  decrees  of  fate  that  were  to 
dispose  all  things  in  their  place,  was  a  giver  of 
oracles  and  in  this  capacity  preceded  Apollo  at 
Delphi.  If  we  could  admit  a  conjecture  from  an 
epithet  (0€j>u3  'Ixvatia)  in  the  Homeric  hymn  to 
Apollo,  she  was  even  believed  to  track  the  guilty 
like  another  Erinys.  A  comparison  with  the 
Vedic  rita  and  the  Zoroastrian  asha  would  show 
how  deeply  this  sense  of  primitive  order  in  crea- 
tion is  planted  in  the  mind  of  the  eastern  Aryans, 
and  would  simplify  for  us  the  understanding  of 
the  Greek  gods.  The  Erinyes  who  maintain  this 
order  are  therefore  the  ministers  of  justice,  but  it 
is  not  difficult  to  see  how  the  notion  of  envy  also 
becomes  associated  with  them.  Right  order  and 
the  justice  deriving  therefrom  would  hold  every 
class  of  created  things  in  its  established  place, 
from  the  inanimate  wanderers  of  the  sky  to  the 
Lords  of  Olympus.  Yet  through  the  whole  world 
runs  an  impulse  and  striving  toward  a  higher 
plane,  which  the  Greeks  could  not  fail  to  recog- 
nise, and  to  which  the  Hindus  have  given  expres- 
sion in  this  terse  epigram : 

The  rooted  trees  would  walk  ;  the  beast 
For  utterance  yearning  still  is  dumb  ; 
Man  toils  for  some  far  heaven,  wherefrom 

The  enthroned  gods  were  fain  released. 

Naturally,  then,  the  powers  who  oppose  this  in- 
stinctive aspiration   seem  to  be  animated  by  a 


236  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

kind  of  envy;  and  the  injunction  to  think  as  a 
mortal  becomes  both  a  moral  law  and  a  maxim  of 
prudence.  For  the  most  part,  the  Krinyes  main- 
tain their  character  as  guardians  of  the  moral 
sense,  whereas  the  fear  of  the  divine  envy  is  per- 
sonified in  Nemesis.  Yet,  occasionally  this  dis- 
tinction is  overlooked.  For  instance,  in  the 
Odyssey  the  daughters  of  Pandareus  are  snatched 
away  by  the  Harpies  and  given  over  to  the 
Erinyes,  because  they  were  too  highly  favoured 
by  certain  of  the  gods.  So,  too,  in  the  Iliad 
Erinys,  acting  with  Zeus  and  Destiny,  sent  upon 
Agamemnon  the  infatuation  that  brought  about 
the  fatal  quarrel. 

Nemesis  is  a  late  addition  to  the  Pantheon,  and 
the  divine  envy  was  recognised  long  before  her 
advent.  Homer  already  detected  this  trait  in  the 
counsels  of  Olympus.  We  remember  how  Posei- 
don envied  the  Phseacians  their  sea-craft;  how 
Eurytus  challenged  Apollo  to  a  contest  of  the  bow 
and  was  killed  by  the  irate  deity;  how  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Niobe  were  slain  because  she 
equalled  herself  to  fair-cheeked  Leto  who  had 
borne  only  two  children,  whereas  she  had  brought 
forth  many, —  Niobe,  symbol  it  may  be  of  the 
fruitful  season  of  spring  withered  by  the  darts  of 
the  sun,  type  of  human  pride  and  love  smitten  by 
the  hand  of  destiny.  "  Alas,  most  wretched 
Niobe,  thee  I  call  a  god,  who  in  thy  rocky  tomb 
forever  weepest."  Certain  features  of  Homeric 
worship  also  may  spring  from  the  same  source. 


NEMESIS  237 

The  offering  of  first  fruits  and  the  pouring  of 
libations  seem  to  arise  from  a  haunting  dread 
that  the  gods  unless  propitiated  may  be  jealous 
of  man's  prosperity;  and  it  may  be  that  in  our 
habit  of  saying  grace  before  meat  there  lurks  a 
remnant  of  the  old  uneasiness. 

Passing  to  Hesiod,  we  notice  a  marked  devel- 
opment of  the  idea.  From  being  an  occasional 
whim  of  the  gods,  envy  is  now  reckoned  one  of 
the  chief  motives  animating  Zeus  in  his  govern- 
ment of  the  world,  and  hence  the  consistent  pic- 
ture of  the  labour  and  hardship  and  humility  of 
man's  lot.  In  Homer  libation  and  sacrifice  served 
to  propitiate  the  divine  favour;  Hesiod  draws  from 
the  sacrifice  his  quaintest  allegory.  The  story 
of  Prometheus  is  twice  told.  According  to  the 
Theogony,  the  sacrificial  victim  is  divided  into 
two  portions,  and  Zeus  is  deceived  by  the  rich 
envelope  of  fat.  Enraged  at  this,  he  denies  to 
man  the  use  of  fire,  which  the  Titan  however 
conveys  to  earth  in  a  hollow  reed.  Thereupon 
Zeus  takes  revenge  by  creating  an  evil  plague 
against  man.  Strange  that  this  ancient  theologian 
should  have  laid  his  finger  on  the  weak  spot  of 
the  generations  to  come,  and  foreseen  the  Nemesis 
that  was  to  destroy  them.  Beauty  made  perfect 
by  the  cunning  of  the  gods,  beauty  and  pleasure 
in  the  form  of  woman,  is  sent  upon  the  world; 
and  when  the  fair  evil  is  brought  into  view,  gods 
and  men  are  filled  with  wonder  at  the  work  of 
fatal,  inexplicable  treachery.     In  the  Works  and 


238  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

Days  the  story  varies  slightly.  Here  the  woman 
is  called  Pandora,  the  possessor  of  all  gifts;  and 
here  we  read  of  the  urn  from  which  all  calamities 
flow  upon  the  earth — only  hope  is  left  behind. 

This  Promethean  struggle  between  the  intelli- 
gence of  man  and  the  forces  that  oppose  his 
activity  contains  the  whole  conception  of  the 
divine  envy,  but  as  yet  only  in  germ.  The  first 
poet  to  recognise  the  full  scope  of  the  myth  seems 
to  have  been  the  uncertain  author  of  the  Cypria. 
It  is  well  known  that  a  succession  of  poets,  after 
the  example  of  Homer,  took  up  the  vast  cycle  of 
legends  that  begins  with  the  battle  of  the  Titans, 
passes  through  the  Theban  and  Trojan  wars,  and 
relates  the  death  of  Odysseus  at  the  hands  of 
Telegonus,  his  son  by  Circe,  concluding  with  the 
tasteless  espousal  of  Telegonus  with  Penelope  and 
Telemachus  with  Circe,  who  all  enjoy  immortality 
together  in  the  island  of  the  enchantress.  These 
epics  are  the  so-called  Cyclic  poems;  and  among 
them  the  Cypria,  if  the  number  of  quotations  from 
it  in  later  works  and  its  influence  011  legendary 
mythology  are  trustworthy  evidence,  held  the 
place  of  honour.  From  the  fragments  preserved 
and  the  summary  of  Proclus  the  entire  plot  of  the 
poem  may  be  reconstructed,  which,  omitting  cer- 
tain episodes,  proceeds  as  follows:  A  conference  is 
held  between  Zeus  and  Themis,  at  which  the 
Trojan  war  is  planned.  Eris  is  thereupon  sent 
among  the  gods  assembled  as  guests  at  the  mar- 
riage feast  of  Peleus  and  Thetis;    she  stirs  up 


NEMESIS  239 

Athena,  Hera,  and  Aphrodite  to  contend  for  the 
palm  of  beauty.  The  three  goddesses  at  the  com- 
mand of  Zeus  are  led  by  Hermes  to  Mount  Ida, 
where  Paris,  bribed  by  Aphrodite  with  the  prof- 
fered possession  of  Helen,  gives  the  award  to  the 
Cyprian  deity.  In  this  connection  the  amours 
of  Zeus  and  Nemesis  are  related,  and  the  birth  of 
their  daughter  Helen.  Paris,  at  the  suggestion 
of  Aphrodite,  builds  a  ship  and  prepares  to  sail 
with  ^neas  to  Greece,  although  Helenus  and 
Cassandra  prophesy  the  ruin  to  come.  The 
Trojan  brothers  are  received  by  Menelaus  in 
Sparta,  where  at  a  banquet  Paris  tempts  Helen 
with  gifts.  Menelaus,  being  called  away  to  Crete, 
bids  Helen  entertain  the  guests  until  they  depart. 
Aphrodite  now  brings  Paris  and  Helen  together, 
and  they  sail  away  at  night,  taking  many  pos- 
sessions with  them.  A  storm  sent  by  Hera  drives 
them  from  their  course,  but  with  the  aid  of  Aphro- 
dite they  finally  reach  Troy.  There  the  nuptials 
of  Paris  and  Helen  are  celebrated,  and  the  Tro- 
jans, by  partaking  in  the  ceremonj^,  become 
sharers  in  the  guilt.  Iris  conveys  to  Menelaus 
news  of  what  has  happened,  and  he,  with  Aga- 
memnon and  Nestor,  collects  an  armament  against 
Troy.  After  a  mistaken  expedition  against  Teu- 
thrania,  the  forces  are  a  second  time  mustered  at 
Aulis,  where  occurs  the  memorable  sacrifice  of 
Iphigenia.  For  Agamemnon,  while  hunting, 
brings  down  a  stag,  and  in  his  elation  boasts  to 
excel  Artemis  herself,  so  that  the  angered  goddess 


240  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

sends  continual  storms  which  prevent  the  fleet 
from  sailing.  Calchas  declares  the  cause  of  the 
deity's  wrath,  and  orders  that  Iphigenia  be  sacri- 
ficed to  appease  her.  The  young  princess  is  sent 
for,  under  pretext  of  wedding  her  to  Achilles. 
She  is  bound  on  the  altar,  but  when  the  knife  is 
raised  to  immolate  the  victim  Artemis  intervenes, 
secretly  conveying  the  maiden  to  Tauris  and  sub- 
stituting a  fawn  in  her  place.  The  army  now 
sails  for  Troy.  Protesilaus,  the  first  to  disem- 
bark, is  slain  by  Hector;  Achilles  drives  back  the 
Trojans  in  rout;  and  the  long  war  of  ten  years 
begins. 

When,  to  this  outline  of  the  plot,  the  numerous 
episodes  are  added, — such  as  the  story  of  Castor 
and  Pollux,  the  sack  of  Epopeus,  the  tragedy  of 
CEdipus,  the  madness  of  Hercules,  the  loves  of 
Theseus  and  Ariadne,  the  expedition  against 
Teuthrania  and  the  tale  of  Telephus,  the  amour 
of  Achilles  and  Deidamia,  the  abandonment  of 
Philoctetes,  the  first  quarrel  of  Agamemnon  with 
Achilles,  and  the  foraging  excursions  of  the  early 
war, — we  can  form  an  idea  of  the  wealth  of  legen- 
dary matter  in  the  poem  and  appreciate  the  extent 
of  its  influence  on  later  literature.  Hence  we  are 
justified  in  saying  that  this  uncertain  Cyclic  poet 
(whether  Stasinus,  or  Hegesias,  or  another  is  un- 
known) more  than  any  other  individual  writer 
gave  currency  to  the  notion  of  Nemesis  and  the 
divine  envy.  The  skill  with  which  the  poet 
weaves  this  motive  through  the  narrative  is  at 


NEMESIS  241 

once  remarkable.  The  opening  lines  are  pre- 
served, and  at  the  outset  Zeus  is  seen  counselling 
with  Themis  (goddess  of  order)  against  mankind 
who  have  waxed  too  numerous  for  the  broad  earth: 
' '  There  was  a  time  when  innumerable  tribes  of 
men  wandering  over  the  land  weighed  down  the 
widtli  of  deep-breasted  earth.  And  Zeus,  behold- 
ing this,  had  pity  and  in  his  mighty  heart  laid  a 
plan  to  relieve  the  all-nourishing  earth  of  her 
load,  fanning  the  flames  of  that  great  strife  of  the 
Trojan  war  that  he  might  lighten  the  load  by 
death.  So  in  Troy  the  heroes  were  slain,  and  the 
will  of  Zeus  was  accomplished. ' '  The  first  words 
of  Greek  epic,  it  will  be  remembered,  tell  how  the 
"will  of  Zeus  was  accomplished"  by  the  wrath 
of  Achilles,  and  here  the  Cyclic  poet  seems  to 
have  taken  up  the  expression  and  developed  its 
meaning  in  accordance  with  his  own  ideas. 

The  grammarian  who  quotes  these  verses  of  the 
Cypria  gives  a  double  reason  for  the  action  of 
Zeus.  The  earth,  he  says,  was  overburdened 
with  the  multitude  of  men,  and,  furthermore, 
there  remained  no  piety  among  them, — and  this 
double  reason  corresponds  to  the  ambiguous  char- 
acter of  the  divine  wrath  as  envy  directed  against 
man's  overweening  greatness  and  as  justice  pur- 
suing his  evil  courses.  The  same  grammarian 
points  out  the  twofold  means  employed  to  carry  out 
the  divine  purpose.  Zeus  is  persuaded  by  Momus 
not  to  destroy  the  whole  race  with  thunder- 
bolt or  deluge,  but  on  the  one  hand  to  bring  about 


242  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

the  union  of  the  mortal  Peleus  with  the  immortal 
Thetis  whence  should  spring  Achilles,  and  on 
the  other  hand  himself  with  Nemesis  to  beget 
the  beautiful  Helen.  One  can  hardly  praise  too 
highly  the  invention  by  which  these  two  events 
are  brought  together, — the  discord  at  the  marriage 
of  Peleus,  the  decision  of  Paris,  who  reflects  the 
thought  of  the  Greek  poet  in  giving  the  prize  to 
the  goddess  of  beauty,  and  the  rape  of  Helen, 
who  thus  becomes  the  instrument  of  vengeance. 
Alread}'  in  Homer  Helen  is  a  strangely  significant 
figure,  and  in  the  proper  place  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  follow  her  down  through  Greek  litera- 
ture. Here  it  is  sufficient  to  note  the  new  version 
of  her  birth  which  makes  her  the  child  of  Nemesis, 
instead  of  Leda.  The  fragment  telling  of  the 
amour  of  Zeus  and  Nemesis  deserves  to  be  quoted 
in  full:  "  And  after  these,  the  third  he  begot 
Helen,  a  wonder  to  mortals,  whom  fair-haired 
Nemesis  mingling  in  love  with  Zeus  bare  to  the 
king  of  the  gods  by  hard  necessity;  for  she  fled 
and  wished  not  to  join  in  love  with  Zeus  Cronion, 
the  father,  and  was  troubled  at  heart  with  shame 
and  indignation.  Over  land  she  fled  and  over 
the  black  unharvested  water.  And  Zeus  pursued, 
longing  in  heart  to  seize  her.  Now  like  a  fish  she 
sped  through  the  waves  of  the  loud-resounding 
sea  and  stirred  up  the  mighty  deep,  and  again 
over  the  ocean  stream  and  the  ends  of  the  earth 
she  wandered,  and  again  over  the  fertile  main- 
land.    And  ever,  to  escape  him,  she  took  the  form 


NEMESIS  243 

of  all  the  wild  monsters  nourished  by  the  earth." 
So  Helen  the  daughter  becomes,  as  it  were,  a 
human  nemesis  to  work  the  will  of  her  father; 
nor  is  there  anything  inconsistent  in  the  union  of 
this  invidious  office  with  her  supreme  beauty. 
Through  fragments  of  broken  tradition  we  gather 
that  her  mother,  the  Nemesis  of  the  poem,  con- 
tained a  like  seeming  contradiction  in  her  im- 
mortal nature. 

The  Greeks  were  slow  to  admit  Nemesis  into 
their  pantheon,  and  to  the  end  her  personality 
was  far  more  shadowy  than  that  of  the  Erinyes. 
The  word  is  derived  from  the  root  meaning  to  dis- 
tribute, and  hence  belongs  in  thought  to  that  large 
group  of  terms  which  by  their  etymology  show 
the  association  of  ideas  in  distribution,  order, 
destiny,  justice,  retribution,  indignation,  envy. 
Homer  employs  the  word  nemesis  only  as  an  ab- 
stract. Its  use  in  Hesiod  is  more  doubtful.  The 
Works  and  Days  announces  that  Nemesis  and 
Shame,  at  the  coming  on  of  the  iron  age,  clad 
themselves  in  white  raiment  and  departed  from 
earth  to  join  the  immortal  gods.  Here  Nemesis 
is  clearly  the  half- personified  feeling  of  justice 
and  righteous  indignation  among  men.  But  in 
the  Theogony  of  the  same  poet  we  are  told  that 
"  pernicious  Night  bare  Nemesis  also,  a  bane  for 
mortal  men."  There  is  no  sufficient  reason  for 
rejecting  this  line,  with  certain  critics.  The  two 
passages  are  of  great  interest  as  showing  the 
transference  of  human  feelings  to  the  gods  and 


244  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

the  personification  of  abstract  ideas  in  the  very 
process.  In  the  Cypria  this  ethical  Nemesis 
seems  to  have  coalesced  with  an  obscure  legend 
of  a  nymph  of  the  same  name,  sprung  from  the 
ocean  like  Aphrodite,  probably  indeed  only  a 
local  manifestation  of  the  great  goddess;  so  that 
in  a  double  sense,  as  instigator  of  Paris  and 
mother  of  Helen,  the  queen  of  beauty  is  made  the 
seducer  and  scourge  of  mankind.  It  is  not  easy 
to  decide  how  much  of  this  allegory  was  conscious 
in  the  mind  of  the  epic  bard;  but  to  us  at  least 
who  look  back  on  that  old  literature  and  weigh 
the  strength  and  error  of  that  wonderful  people, 
this  early  union  of  Nemesis  with  Aphrodite  car- 
ries a  haunting  lesson.  Its  significance,  however, 
was  soon  lost,  for  the  two  deities  were  disassoci- 
ated and  Nemesis,  to  the  later  poets,  became  again 
a  separate  person. 

Other  details  of  the  Cyprian  epic  were  more 
fruitful  of  imitation.  The  tragic  story  of  CEdipus, 
the  madness  of  Hercules,  the  fate  of  Protesilaus, 
show  the  working  of  Nemesis  in  the  episodes  of 
the  poem,  and  must  have  influenced  succeeding 
writers.  The  ravings  of  Helenus  and  Cassandra 
were  not  forgotten  in  later  pictures  of  madness 
sent  by  the  divine  envy.  But  most  popular  of  all 
was  the  pathetic  story  of  Iphigenia,  the  echo  of 
whose  lamentation  is  still  heard  in  modern  litera- 
ture. Iphigenia,  laying  down  her  young  life  on 
the  altar  to  appease  the  envy  of  the  goddess, 
stands  as  the  fairest,  the  most  touching,  emblem 


NEMESIS  245 

of  the  dread  that  has  haunted  man's  heart  from 
of  old,  the  purest  example  of  the  sacrifice  de- 
manded by  the  religious  instinct  whether  pagan 
or  Christian.  She  furnished  a  theme  for  several 
of  the  noblest  of  Greek  tragedies;  her  fate  ani- 
mated the  bitterest  lines  of  Lucretius,  ending  with 
those  words  which  the  world  has  not  forgotten 
and  can  never  forget,  Tantum  religio!  Her  story 
has  inspired  modern  poets  to  revive  the  beauty  of 
ancient  mythology;  and,  among  others,  taught 
L,andor  to  write  verses  that  contain  perhaps  more 
of  the  true  classical  spirit  than  any  other  poem  of 
the  past  century. 

So  far  we  have  been  dealing  with  pure  mytho- 
logy, with  that  form  of  art  where  symbol  and  ab- 
stract thought  are  barely  distinguishable.  But 
with  the  coming  of  the  fifth  century  begins  an  age 
of  reflection  or  theology.  Pindar  stands  at  the 
threshold  of  the  new  period;  and  in  him  myth 
and  theology,  symbol  and  abstraction,  speak  side 
by  side.  Pindar  is  the  accepted  singer  of  aris- 
tocracy, the  clear- voiced  herald  of  splendid  wealth, 
of  magnanimous  deeds,  of  regal  pride,  of  unpity- 
ing  strength.  His  odes  unroll  before  us  the 
pageant  of  all  that  is  glorious  in  individual 
achievement.  As  in  the  golden  pomp  of  tri- 
umphal processions,  his  heroes  pass  before  us 
wearing  the  insolence  of  perfect  self-reliance  and 
with  the  smile  of  uuembittered  victory.  By  their 
side  move  the  blessed  Olympians,  bright  with  the 
effulgence  of  immortality.     Gods  and  men  hold 


246  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

converse  together,  heedless  of  the  thronging  mul- 
titudes that  shout  in  acclaim:  they  lean  upon  one 
another  in  graceful  confidence,  so  that  the  eye 
fails  now  and  again  to  distinguish  between  deified 
mortal  and  humanised  god.  Yet  listen  more  at- 
tentively to  the  poet's  hymns  of  victory,  and  the 
ear  will  be  struck  by  one  note  that  is  sounded 
over  and  over  again:  "  Be  bold,  be  bold;  be  not 
too  bold!  "  Nowhere  else  is  the  lesson  of  worldly 
moderation  so  intimately  blended  with  its  divine 
counterpart.  Through  all  the  exultant  laudation 
the  warning  words  return,  in  every  variety  of 
form.  Now  it  is  direct  admonition:  "Seek  not 
to  become  a  god";  now  it  is  a  picture  of  man's 
littleness,  who  is  but  "  the  dream  of  a  shadow  "; 
now  it  is  a  hint  conveyed  in  parable  or  fable; 
again  the  poet  recalls  the  frightful  stones  of  old- 
world  mythology,  Tantalus,  Typhus,  Ixion, 
Tityus,  Bellerophon,  and  others,  all  overwhelmed 
in  their  mad  efforts  to  rival  the  gods;  and  again 
he  himself  bows  before  these  gods  whose  jealous 
wrath  threatens  the  glory  even  of  the  poet  who 
adores  them. 

From  the  golden-mouthed  singer  of  the  heroic 
days  we  turn  naturally  to  the  historian  who  cele- 
brated the  same  period  in  no  less  famous  prose. 
Herodotus  occupies  a  unique  position  in  literature, 
for  the  reason  that  he,  more  than  any  other,  com- 
bines two  aspects  of  thought  which  make  of  him 
at  once  a  master  historian  and  a  complete  ex- 
ponent of  the  essentially  Greek  spirit.     He  was 


NEMESIS  247 

eiidowed  with  the  wondering  eye  of  the  child.  In 
the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  or  elsewhere  it 
may  be,  we  have  seen  a  circle  of  children  en- 
thralled by  the  antic  play  of  a  puppet  show;  as 
we  watched  them,  gradually  their  enthusiasm 
crept  upon  us  until  all  the  silly  mechanism  of  the 
tiny  stage  was  forgotten;  the  painted  dolls  became 
living  creatures,  their  passions  moved  us  to 
laughter  or  tears,  and  the  voice  of  the  hidden 
manager  spoke  with  oracular  wisdom.  So  Herod- 
otus looked  upon  the  world's  stage  with  the  won- 
der of  childlike  delight;  and,  reading  his  long 
narration,  we  are  seized  by  the  same  intoxication. 
The  sordid  wires  and  pulleys  of  history  are  for  a 
while  ignored,  all  the  nobler  motives  of  humanity 
wake  a  responsive  chord  in  our  hearts,  and  always 
we  hear  the  voice  of  the  oracles  of  the  gods,  utter- 
ing words  of  admonition  and  encouragement. 
Were  there  nothing  else  in  the  historian's  pages, 
he  would  still  rank  among  the  great  writers  of 
the  world;  for  deep  in  our  breast  there  remains  a 
haunting  suspicion  that  somehow  with  the  ex- 
perience of  age  we  have  lost  another,  different 
wisdom  of  childhood.  But,  side  by  side  with  this 
uucontamiuated  vision,  there  runs  through  Herod- 
otus a  vein  of  profound  and  mature  reflection. 
Here  we  discern  the  keen  eye  of  the  philosopher 
who  detected  through  all  the  tangle  of  events  the 
one  paramount  conflict  of  reason  with  unreason, 
so  that,  following  his  record  of  the  wars  of  Greece 
and  Persia,  together  with  their  long  preparation, 


248  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

we  seem  to  read  once  for  all  the  struggle  of  the 
human  race.  The  victory  at  last  is  splendid;  but 
at  every  turn  of  the  narrative,  like  a  true  Greek, 
he  insinuates  his  subtle  warning,  and  the  lesson 
is  the  same  as  Pindar's,  now  made  solemn  by  the 
weight  of  historical  example:  Be  bold,  yet  leaven 
pride  with  humility  beneath  the  eye  of  divine 
envy.  In  the  introduction  to  his  work  he  writes: 
' '  The  cities  which  once  were  great  are  now  for 
the  most  part  insignificant,  and  those  that  are  at 
present  illustrious  were  formerly  small.  Knowing 
then  the  precarious  nature  of  human  felicity,  I 
shall  speak  of  both  alike."  A  little  further  on, 
as  if  to  give  us  in  dramatic  form  the  key  to  all 
that  follows,  he  introduces  the  memorable  scene 
between  Croesus,  the  type  of  human  prosperity, 
and  Solon,  the  mouthpiece  of  cautious  wisdom. 
The  Athenian  would  count  no  man  happy  until 
the  end  were  seen,  for  oftentimes  God  gives  men 
a  gleam  of  happiness  and  then  plunges  them  into 
ruin.  Nay,  man  is  but  a  thing  of  accident,  and 
the  divine  nature  is  full  of  envy  and  prone  to  send 
tribulations.  And  after  the  departure  of  Solon, 
the  historian  adds,  a  great  nemesis  from  God 
came  upon  Croesus,  presumably  because  he  deemed 
himself  the  most  prosperous  of  men. 

It  may  be  a  matter  of  astonishment  that  this 
perpetual  fear  of  Nemesis  never  in  Greece  degen- 
erated into  vulgar  superstition.  The  Romans  also 
shrunk  from  the  divine  envy,  and  how  different 
is  the  manifestation  of  their  dread!     There  we 


NEMESIS  249 

may  behold  Caesar,  startled  in  his  triumphal  pro- 
cession by  an  unlucky  chance,  climbing  up  the 
steps  of  the  Capitol  on  his  knees;  and  Augustus, 
terrified  by  nocturnal  visions,  begging  alms  on  a 
certain  day  each  year,  stretching  out  his  hollow 
hand  to  the  people;  we  may  behold  Claudius  also 
mounting  the  Capitol  on  his  knees,  and  the  spec- 
tacle will  teach  us  the  difference  between  servile 
superstition  and  the  free  play  of  imagination. 
Well  might  the  insolent  conquerors  of  the  world 
cringe  before  the  wrath  of  Nemesis,  and  the  down- 
fall of  the  "  Eternal  City  "  may  stand  as  the  most 
eloquent  proof  of  her  inexorable  judgments. 

The  literature  of  Rome  offers  few  examples  of 
belief  in  a  personal  Nemesis,  for  the  mythopceic 
faculty  never  flourished  in  that  materialistic  city. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  Rome  gave  to  the  world 
the  two  great  religious  poets  of  antiquity  in  whom 
the  sense  of  the  divine  envy  speaks  in  clear  and 
diverse  accents.  Mention  has  already  been  made 
of  L,ucretius  and  his  use  of  the  Iphigenia  legend. 
From  beginning  to  end,  his  work  is  inspired  by 
the  same  feeling  of  horror  toward  the  gods  as  they 
appeared  to  him  in  mythology.  His  soul  is  tor- 
tured by  the  universal  dread  of  a  watchful  malig- 
nant power  in  the  sky,  by  the  servile  homage  and 
degrading  worship  exacted  from  men,  by  the  cruel 
deeds  perpetrated  in  the  name  of  religion,  and  by 
visions  of  future  punishment.  To  escape  once 
for  all  from  this  superstition  of  divine  envy,  he 
would  utterly  sweep  away  religion  and  the  hopes 


250  SHELBURNE   ESSAYS 

of  a  future  life.  To  Epicurus  who  has  unbur- 
dened the  heart  of  these  errors  he  vows  himself  as 
to  a  hero  greater  than  Hercules,  who  freed  the 
earth  of  physical  monsters:  "When  human  life 
lay  shamefully  grovelling  on  the  earth,  oppressed 
by  religion  which  showed  her  head  from  the  re- 
gions of  the  sky  lowering  down  upon  mortals 
with  horrible  aspect,  then  first  a  man  of  Greece 
dared  raise  aloft  his  mortal  eyes  and  take  stand 
against  her.  Him  neither  rumours  of  the  gods 
constrained,  nor  thunderbolts,  nor  the  sky  with 
threatening  murmurs;  but  only  the  more  these 
things  embittered  his  mind  with  desire  to  break 
down  first  the  narrow  bars  of  nature's  door. 
Therefore  the  living  power  of  his  mind  prevailed; 
therefore  he  proceeded  far  out  beyond  the  flaming 
ramparts  of  the  world  and  with  heart  and  soul 
traversed  the  vast  immensity. ' '  Such  is  his  boast: 
and  in  the  empty  spaces  of  the  world  what  did  he 
find  to  replace  the  hated  powers  ?  Only  a  blind, 
swirling  tempest  of  atoms  which  obey  no  law  but 
that  of  chance.  And  the  comfort  he  found  for  the 
human  soul  was  like  that  which  a  later  bard 
brought  back  from  the  City  of  Dreadful  Night : 

Good  tidings  of  great  joy  for  you,  for  all : 
There  is  no  God ;  no  Fiend  with  names  divine 
Made  us  and  tortures  us  ;  if  we  must  pine, 

It  is  to  satiate  no  Being's  gall. 

Lucretius  consigned  the  gods  to  a  far-off  limbo 
of  unconcerned  ease;  Virgil  retains  them  as  a  kind 


NEMESIS  251 

of  poetical  machinery  for  his  poem,  although  in 
reality  granting  them  no  more  authority  than  the 
Epicurean.  To  replace  them,  he  introduces  the 
working  of  Fate  into  the  world,  a  power  as  im- 
personal as  chance  and  equally  devoid  of  responsi- 
bility. Its  iron  sway,  whether  it  he  called  fortuna 
omnipotens  or  inexorabile  fatum  or  ineluctabile 
tcmpus,  is  more  pitiless  than  the  divine  envy  of 
the  Greeks;  there  is  no  heart  in  the  fata  aspcra 
for  sympathy  with  human  labour.  Virgil  would 
replace  the  whims  of  Nemesis  by  a  vast  design  of 
Providence  toward  which  the  workings  of  Fate 
inevitably  move.  Yet  this  Providence  is  as  im- 
personal as  the  decrees  cf  Fate  which  it  executes; 
and  ^Eneas,  carried  on  irresistibly  to  establish 
Rome,  herself  the  symbol  of  destiny  on  earth, 
must  endure  every  personal  sacrifice,— the  deso- 
lation of  his  home,  years  of  wandering,  shipwreck, 
the  abandonment  of  love,  cruel  wars, — all  that  his 
heart  desires  is  swallowed  up  by  the  exigencies  of 
envious  necessity.  So,  too,  in  the  memorable 
passage  of  the  Georgics,  where  Virgil  gives  freest 
utterance  to  his  own  views  and  longings,  what  is 
it  lends  such  peculiar  pathos  to  the  lines  but  the 
feeling  that  somehow  happiness  forever  floats  just 
beyond,  and  there  needs  but  an  effort  on  our  part 
to  penetrate  the  clouds  and  behold  its  unsullied 
glory, — only  some  strange  fatality  in  our  breast 
remorselessly  holds  us  back  !  O  fortunatos 
nimiutn,  sua  si  bona  norint,  he  begins.  Alas, 
too  happy  indeed!     I  know  not  if  it  may  appear  a 


252  SHELBURNE    ESSAYS 

bit  of  pedantic  subtlety,  but  in  the  single  word 
nimium  I  seem  to  read  all  the  pathos  of  man's 
vain  aspirations  beneath  the  frown  of  an  incom- 
prehensible Nemesis. 

The  chance  and  fate  of  the  Roman  poets,  how- 
ever, carry  us  out  of  the  field  of  mythology.  The 
most  notable  effort  to  rationalise  the  divine  envy 
within  mythology  is  the  great  trilogy  of  iEschylus 
presenting  the  story  of  Orestes.  His  picture  of 
the  Erinyes  pursuing  the  house  of  Atreus  as  an 
inherited  curse  is  the  most  sombre  in  Greek  liter- 
ature. Yet,  after  all,  they  are  the  ministers  of 
justice;  in  the  end  they  are  appeased,  and,  losing 
their  savage  aspect,  remain  as  the  Eumenides,  the 
kindly-disposed,  the  guardians  of  the  Athenian 
state.  And  if  this  fair  allegory  leaves  unaltered 
the  real  Nemesis  who  broods  over  human  weak- 
ness, still  there  is  a  word  of  consolation  even  here. 
Zeus  has  appointed,  the  poet  writes,  that  we  grow 
wise  through  suffering;  and  again  and  again  he 
hints  that  the  soul  may  win,  at  the  last,  her  own 
profit  from  the  envy  of  fortune.  It  is  the  old  say- 
ing of  Genesis:  "  Ye  shall  be  as  gods  knowing 
good  and  evil." 

With  this  word  of  good  omen  we  may  close. 
If  our  study  of  the  divine  envy  seems  to  leave  the 
subject  after  all  as  an  unsolved  problem,  we  only 
reproduce  in  this  the  attitude  of  the  Greeks  them- 
selves. Let  us  not  be  deceived:  these  questions 
that  touch  man's  deepest  moral  experience  are  not 
capable  of  logical  solution;  indeed,  they  lose  all 


NEMESIS  253 

reality  as  soon  as  subjected  to  dogmatic  definition. 
So  it  is  always  refreshing  and  stimulating  to 
come  into  contact  with  a  people  who  faced  these 
problems  frankly  and  naturally,  without  the  re- 
straints of  revelation  or  sophistication  or  indiffer- 
ence. From  his  perception  of  harmony  in  the 
world  the  Greek  created  the  Erinyes,  the  up- 
holders of  order;  from  his  experience  of  man's 
frailty  he  bowed  to  Nemesis;  and  these  two,  the 
divine  justice  and  the  divine  envy,  worked  side 
by  side,  now  perfectly  distinct  and  again  insepar- 
ably blended.  At  times  he  seemed  to  discern 
a  higher  purpose  speaking  through  the  events  of 
human  life,  but  still  his  mind  was  too  upright  to 
avow  any  real  understanding  of  what  transcended 
his  own  vision.  Always  he  drew  one  lesson 
from  Erinyes  and  Nemesis  alike:  "  Think  as  a 
mortal ' ' ;  and  these  words  he  made  the  religious 
complement  of  the  still  more  famous  command 
which  Apollo  spoke  to  him  from  the  portal  of  the 
temple  at  Delphi. 

THE  END 


Shelburne  Essays 

By   Paul   Elmer   More 

3  vols.     Crown  octavo. 
Sold  separately.      Net,  $1.25.     (By  mail,  $1.35) 

Contents 

First  Series  :  A  Hermit's  Notes  on  Thoreau — The  Soli- 
tude of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne — The  Origins  of  Haw- 
thorne and  Poe — The  Influence  of  Emerson — The  Spirit 
of  Carlyle — The  Science  of  English  Verse  —  Arthur 
Symonds:  The  Two  Illusions— The  Epic  of  Ireland — 
Two  Poets  of  the  Irish  Movement — Tolstoy;  or,  The 
Ancient  Feud  between  Philosophy  and  Art — The  Re- 
ligious Ground  of  Humanitarianism. 

SECOND  SERIES  :  Elizabethan  Sonnets — Shakespeare's  Son- 
nets—  Lafcadio  Ilearn — The  First  Complete  Edition  of 
ll.i/.litt  —  Charles  Lamb  —  Kipling  and  FitzGerald  — 
George  Crabbe  —  The  Novels  of  George  Meredith  — 
Hawthorne:  Looking  before  and  after  —  Delphi  and 
Greek  Literature — Nemesis  ;  or,  The  Divine  Envy. 

THIRD  SERIES  :  The  Correspondence  of  William  Cowper — 
Whittier  the  Poet — The  Centenary  of  Sainte-Beuve — 
The  Scotch  Novels  and  Scotch  History — Swinburne — 
Christina  Rossetti — Why  is  Browning  Popular? — A  Note 
on  Byron's  "Don  Juan" — Laurence  Sterne — J.  Henry 
Shorthouse — The  Quest. 


G.    P.    Putnam's   Sons 

New  York  London 


A  Few  Press  Criticisms  on 
Shelbume  Essays 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  hail  in  Mr.  More  a  genuine  critic,  for 
genuine  critics  in  America  in  these  days  are  uncommonly 
scarce.  .  .  .  We  recommend,  as  a  sample  of  his  breadth, 
style,  acumen,  and  power  the  essay  on  Tolstoy  in  the  present 
volume.  That  represents  criticism  that  has  not  merely 
a  metropolitan  but  a  world  note.  .  .  .  One  is  thoroughly 
grateful  to  Mr.  More  for  the  high  quality  of  his  thought,  his 
serious  purpose,  and  his  excellent  style." — Harvard  Gradu- 
ates' Magazine. 

"  We  do  not  know  of  any  one  now  writing  who  gives 
evidence  of  a  better  critical  equipment  than  Mr.  More.  It 
is  rare  nowadays  to  find  a  writer  so  thoroughly  familiar  with 
both  ancient  and  modern  thought.  It  is  this  width  of  view, 
this  intimate  acquaintance  with  so  much  of  the  best  that  has 
been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  irrespective  of  local 
prejudice,  that  constitute  Mr.  More's  strength  as  a  critic. 
He  has  been  able  to  form  for  himself  a  sound  literary  canon 
and  a  sane  philosophy  of  life  which  constitute  to  our  mind 
his  peculiar  merit  as  a  critic." — Independent. 

"  He  is  familiar  with  classical,  Oriental,  and  English 
literature ;  he  uses  a  temperate,  lucid,  weighty,  and  not 
ungraceful  style  ;  he  is  aware  of  his  best  predecessors,  and  is 
apparently  on  the  way  to  a  set  of  philosophic  principles 
which  should  lead  him  to  a  high  and  perhaps  influential 
place  in  criticism.  .  .  .  We  believe  that  we  are  in  the 
presence  of  a  critic  who  must  be  counted  among  the  first  who 
take  literature  and  life  for  their  theme." — London  Speaker. 


G.    P.    Putnam's   Sons 
New  York  London 


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